


Strictly Business

by breathtaken



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Office, Author's Favorite, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 05:32:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4088800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos de la Fère is a workaholic acting CEO who needs to marry in a hurry so that he can fully inherit the family business; Charles d'Artagnan is recently graduated, with few prospects and even less direction in life. It's a marriage of convenience that quickly gets out of hand...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Amistosa](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/amistosa) and [queenaramis](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/queenaramis) for all their brainstorming, cheerleading and sounding board-ing.
> 
>  **Content notes** : Athos is a (sober) alcoholic, which is referenced throughout the fic. Also, I apologise to any lawyers who might be reading this.

It starts just after nine am on a Thursday, two weeks after his grandfather’s death, when following a night of persistent insomnia Athos is at his desk bright and early, chasing a double espresso with a glass of sparkling water, and trying to persuade his protesting body yet again that days are for being awake and nights are for sleeping – not that it seems to want to listen.

He rubs blearily at his eyes, sighs a little, and returns to skimming his emails (all the ones Constance has flagged, anyway, because there’s no question of there ever being enough time in his life to actually read _all_ his emails) and double-flagging anything he might need to take action on; and when Constance comes in to say that Bonacieux from Legal is here and needs to see him urgently, screwing up her nose just a little as she does so – well, all Athos thinks at first is that at least it gets him away from his inbox.

“Okay, send him in please, and go get yourself a coffee,” Athos replies – conscious of the fact that Bonacieux is Constance’s ex-husband and still particularly sore about that fact, and she’ll no doubt be glad to see as little of him as possible. He barely ever comes upstairs, at least, both him and Athos choosing to keep their interaction to email wherever possible; and as Athos reflects on it, the fact that Bonacieux _has_ chosen to come here in person suddenly is enough to make him feel distinctly uneasy.

When Bonacieux enters the room half a minute later, he’s without his jacket – for possibly the first time Athos has ever seen, his sleeves are rolled up and the only thing he’s carrying is a slim beige folder in one hand, which does absolutely nothing by way of reassurance.

“Good morning, Jacques. Please take a seat.” Athos gestures to the chair in front of his desk, firmly reminding himself that there’s no point getting excited until he actually knows what this is about.

“Athos. I won’t beat about the bush.”

Bonacieux pauses – and Athos blinks in surprise as he realises that Bonacieux actually looks _nervous_ , his insides clenching a little as he tries to keep his facial muscles relaxed and waits for Bonacieux to tell him that they’re being sued by a competitor or have been violating regulations, or something equally catastrophic.

But what Bonacieux actually says is, “I’ve discovered a problem with Mr de la Fère senior’s will.”

Though Athos’ grandfather only recently passed away, Athos has been in charge of the company in practice for nearly a year now, ever since he was first taken ill; and in comparison with some of the things he’s weathered during that time, from his own ongoing struggle with alcoholism to battling the mistrust of his board of directors and the continuing impact of the global recession, his first thought is that this hardly seems so serious. Bonacieux has always been known for making a fuss, and Athos doesn’t doubt that whatever may have arisen, he has the resources to fix it.

“What kind of a problem?” he asks. “Is something unclear?”

“No… it’s exactly the opposite.” Bonacieux hesitates for long enough that Athos is just about to prompt him again when he blurts out, “To put it bluntly – the will states that you need to be married in order to inherit.”

In the silence that follows, Athos is too stunned to think anything at all; although he thinks he hears a faint ringing in his ears, like he imagines the first moments after an explosion.

“Married,” he repeats stupidly, at a loss to do or say anything else.

“I’ve double- and triple-checked, and I’m afraid the situation’s quite clear.” Now that he’s got the hard part out of the way, Bonacieux is talking all too easily, the part of Athos’ brain that seems to be entirely detached from what he’s just learned decides. “There’s no provision whereby you would be passed over as primary beneficiary, so we can definitely delay the process for a while, but ah, you must be currently married in order to inherit the late Mr de la Fère’s company shares. And I’m sure you don’t need me to explain the potential impact of this.”

“No, quite.” Athos is under no illusion that he would have maintained his position as acting CEO without his grandfather’s backing; and he doesn’t trust for one moment that he’s fully gained the trust of his board of directors after just one moderately successful year, when he considers what preceded it. He needs control of those shares, and as soon as possible, or he’s sure it will only be a matter of time before the board starts to move against him.

Losing his position is probably the only thing worse than the idea of _remarrying,_ which he is definitely not going to think any further about right now.

“I assume we didn’t know about this? Because I certainly didn’t.”

“No.” Bonacieux hesitates again, looking even more awkward than before. “I, ah, did request authorisation to go over your grandfather’s will when he fell ill… but the request was never granted.”

“I dropped the ball,” Athos realises.

Now he thinks about it, he’s fairly sure he remembers putting aside a request of that nature to deal with later, and probably more than once – there was always something more important that needed his attention.

Or so he’d thought, anyway, and look where it’s landed him.

There’s one thing he still can’t get past, though:

“And _why_ does the will specify… _this_ , in the first place? Do you have any idea at all?”

“Well… it is almost thirty years old. It still names your father as primary beneficiary.” Bonacieux shrugs, an incongruous action for a man of his character. “I can only assume such attitudes were commonplace among men of Mr de la Fère senior’s generation.”

Athos decides Bonacieux might not be so far off the mark: his grandfather was always old-fashioned, though he did mellow somewhat in his later years; and Athos can be as certain as he thinks he needs to be that if his grandfather had thought at all of updating his will in years past, the loss of his only son – and then his younger grandson so soon after, Athos remembers, with a dull stab of pain – would have been too much for him.

“Well, I’ll leave this with you,” Bonacieux says, laying the beige folder on Athos’ desk as carefully as if he half-expects it to bite him, clearly wanting to be anywhere else as quickly as possible.

Athos feels a bit sorry for him, actually. Bonacieux may be a pompous little man but he is a good lawyer; and while he frankly can’t remember how long he’s been with the company, Athos is under no illusions that there’s anyone in this office who doesn’t know the story behind the conclusion of his first marriage. He certainly wouldn’t want to be the person who had to come and tell him that to keep control of the business, he has to get married _again_.

 _God_ , he wants a drink, more badly than he thinks he has in months.

No, he doesn’t just want a drink – he wants to get _wasted_. He wants to get blind, blackout drunk, until none of this matters any more.

But it wouldn’t just be once, he knows that all too well – and there’s only him left now, no-one else to cover for him, to take his weight; and so he pops a piece of gum into his mouth and gets up to make himself another coffee, leaving the beige folder where it lies.

_Marriage._

He swore to himself that he’d never marry again – never be that _stupid_ again – and now this.

He’s fucked, isn’t he?

He’s really, really fucked.

“Athos, are you alright?”

He jumps a little when Constance appears beside him, looking at him strangely – and he realises he’s just standing in front of the espresso machine and staring into space, for he isn’t sure how long.

“No,” he says truthfully, “I’m not sure I am.”

 

* * *

 

Constance is a remarkable woman, Athos decides, and he’s very lucky indeed to have her. All she does when he leads her into his office, sits her down and tells her what’s happened is stare at him for a couple of seconds, before snatching up the folder that Bonacieux left and reading through its contents without a word – as her lips purse into a thin line – then reaching for her habitual notebook and pen and saying without preamble, “Well. First, you need to make a list of possible candidates. Who do you know who might be suitable?”

“I have no idea,” Athos manages to reply, reeling a little from the abrupt change of pace. He supposes that the recent changes in the law have doubled his options, at least, but that doesn’t change the fact that he only has two friends, who are already married to each other. Everyone else he knows is either a distant relative or an employee, which are equally out of the question.

But then it comes to him; and although everything about it feels wrong, he swallows the feeling down and makes himself say, “Catherine.”

Constance nearly drops her pen.

“ _Athos._ ”

“She knows the business,” he argues – though he falters when he parses the way Constance is looking at him, wide-eyed and almost pitying.

“What about Ninon de Larroque?” she cuts in. “You’re friends. And she isn’t married.”

Athos almost laughs at the idea. “Ninon wouldn’t marry me.”

_Fuck me, perhaps, but not marry me._

“Try her,” Constance insists, her pen moving on the paper – writing down Ninon’s name anyway, Athos presumes. “Just to be sure. She’s – well. Whoever you marry, you’ll have to work with them, long-term. You can’t just sign the register and then forget all about them. It needs to look real.” She pauses, her expression softening. “And how do you think it would feel for Catherine? To have you pretending to be her husband and all the time knowing it was nothing more than a business arrangement?”

“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” Athos confesses, unable to hold Constance’s gaze. She’s right, on both counts: even if he wanted to have Catherine back in his life – which he doesn’t particularly, he’s barely thought of her in years – it would still be cruel, and cruel is one of the few things he likes to believe he’s never been.

“I know,” Constance says kindly – more kindly than Athos deserves, he thinks. “So try Ninon first. And failing that, you’re seeing Porthos and Aramis tonight anyway, perhaps they’ll have some ideas.”

“I wasn’t sure I’d go,” Athos says automatically, even though he doesn’t imagine Constance will let him get away with bailing on them at the eleventh hour. For all that he loves his friends, his overwhelming instinct right now is to hide away somewhere dark and quiet to lick his wounds.

“Nonsense,” Constance replies, predictably, “You need their help. Also? You’ve just had a big shock. I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be on your own tonight.” _In case you relapse,_ she doesn’t say.

“Yes, you’re probably right.” While Athos knows he’s strong enough not to drink, however dreadful he feels, he supposes Constance knows him well enough to know that he will be better off with his friends around him if things get bad, no matter how counter-intuitive it might seem right now.

“Okay. I’ll let you call Ninon,” Constance says meaningfully, getting up and letting herself quietly out of his office, taking his empty coffee cup with her.

As soon as the door clicks shut behind her, Athos leans back in his chair, tipping his head back and closing his eyes.

 _Marriage_ , he thinks again; though nothing follows it, just a curious blankness where he supposes some sort of emotion should be.

Though he knows he must – that he has no choice – he simply can’t see it. Can’t imagine himself married, not to Ninon, not to anyone.

Still. Better get this over with.

He opens his eyes again, and reaches for the phone.

 

* * *

 

Fifteen minutes later, Athos puts the handset heavily back in its cradle, surprised by the strange sense of disappointment he feels, even though he’d never expected Ninon to accept his proposal – such as it was – in the first place.

He feels a headache coming on; and presses his fingers against his temples as the conversation with Ninon plays back in his mind: her initial peal of laughter, followed by a sharp intake of breath and then a resounding silence as he impressed on her that no, he really was in earnest.

“ _Athos, darling, it’s out of the question_ ,” she said eventually, something like pity in her voice. “ _I’ve got a life of my own – I’ve got a partner, I’ve got my_ work _– and fond as I am of you, I’m not going to throw all that way to become your trophy wife._ ”

She’s right, of course, though he thinks she understands that he had to ask, had to _know_ , because it’s not like Ninon’s never surprised him.

“ _Think carefully about what you want_ ,” were her last words to him, before hanging up – leaving him confused and humiliated and frustrated all at once, because what fucking use is that, when he doesn’t want _any_ of this?

He looks up when Constance knocks at the door, entering a moment later with a stack of papers under her arm.

“Today’s internal post,” she says by way of greeting, looking at him searchingly. “I take it things didn’t go well with Ninon?”

“She refused me. Not that I’m surprised.” Athos reaches out to take the pile from her. “I knew I was asking too much. Which leaves me fresh out of ideas.”

“Don’t despair just yet,” Constance urges – surprising Athos by putting a hand over his, for just a moment. “You’re a smart man, you’ll figure this out. I’m sure more people would be willing to help you than you think.”

And as he looks up at her – properly looks, at the determined optimism of her smile and the kindness in her eyes, along with the cumulative memory of every time she’s gone the extra mile to help keep him sober and together, every time she’s _cared –_ Athos wonders how he hadn’t seen it before.

Constance is divorced, like him. She knows what running this company entails almost as well as he does, and she probably knows him as well as any of his friends – he certainly spends more time with her than he does anyone else, and he thinks the reverse might just be true too.

He’d dismissed the idea of marrying an employee out of hand to begin with, but actually he supposes it wouldn’t look so unusual for a man to marry his PA; and in return he could help her really make something of herself, whatever she wanted, not just a life spent managing his diary and arranging meetings.

Ever since he stepped up and started to really do his duty to his family and the business she’s been there for him, keeping him positive and never letting him falter. With her by his side, he feels he could even do this; and as the moment stretches out and they just look at each other, he feels himself start to smile, _really_ smile for the first time all morning.

Infinitely gently, as though she knows exactly what he’s thinking, she replies, “Although I’m afraid I wouldn’t be one of them. I value my freedom far too much.”

Inwardly, he cringes.

_No. Of course not._

It was stupid of him to even _think,_ and it stings to have his new hope so quickly dashed; but this has made him stupid. _Desperate_ , even, and hopelessly transparent.

At least she didn’t let him say it, and make him suffer the humiliation of being rejected by two women within half an hour.

“I can’t imagine who would be,” he manages, wishing for once that she didn’t know him quite so well.

“Ask Aramis and Porthos tonight.” It’s as if a switch has flicked, Constance’s straightforward manner returning instantly. “They’re good friends, and I’m sure they can come up with something. Just don’t do anything drastic before then, okay?”

 _Like proposing to Catherine,_ Athos’ brain supplies. “Okay.”

“Alright. Q2 sales reports are there –” Constance points to the stack of papers, now lying in the centre of his desk – “you’re meeting Alice from Marketing at half past to talk about the Mediterranean territories’ six-month plan, and then you have a conference call with Florien at eleven about the Eastern European suppliers. Just let me know if you need anything.” She’s already standing, turning to let herself out.

“Will do,” Athos calls after her; and indulges himself for a few moments, watching her return to her own desk through the open blinds and sit back down behind her computer, telling himself that it’s for the best. Constance is a young woman with her best years ahead of her, he reminds himself, the last thing he’d want is to shackle her to him. He’d much rather she was happy elsewhere.

Meanwhile, he’s going to follow her advice: he’ll see what Aramis and Porthos have to say tonight, but right now the best thing he can do is put this whole matter as far from his mind as possible, and get on with doing his job.

 

* * *

 

Athos is extremely grateful for Aramis and Porthos. They may not know every detail of his past, but still they know _him_ ; and when he turns up on their doorstep looking like he imagines he does today, they just lead him into the living room without a word, bring him a glass of tonic water and ask what’s happened.

Athos grips the glass between his fingers and watches the bubbles rise up through the clear liquid as he says, in a voice he has trouble believing as his own, “According to the terms of my grandfather’s will, I need to be married in order to inherit.”

In turn, he knows them well enough that he doesn’t need to look up to see the expressions on their faces, though he hears it in their voices well enough, as they both say in unison, “What?!”

“I need to be married,” he repeats patiently, “in order to inherit.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Porthos protests.

“Those are the terms.” He shrugs, as if to say _what can you do_. “It may be something out of the Dark Ages, but according to my legal team there’s no way round it. And it needs to happen as soon as possible if I want to keep control of the company.” He takes a sip of his tonic water, which is almost as good as the gin and tonic – or rather, the five gin and tonics – he really wants right now.

“Holy shit,” Aramis breathes, as Athos shifts a little in his armchair and tries to ignore the fact that he’s still being stared at as if he’s just grown a second head.

“What are you going to do?” Porthos asks, looking at him in much the same way. “Just – marry someone?”

“I asked Ninon. She refused me, not that I blame her. She said no way was she giving up her life for mine.”

Aramis is nodding. “And we’d help if we could, but.” He holds up his hand, displaying his wedding ring – as if Athos needs reminding.

“I – thought about Catherine,” Athos confesses – making himself say it, a little ashamed all over again at the way they wince in unison. “But judging by your expressions, my instincts were right on that one.”

“Athos, I promise I do not exaggerate when I say that would be a _terrible_ idea,” Aramis says fervently, helping himself to a handful of nuts from the little bowl on the coffee table. “For the sake of your own sanity, to say the least. Is there really no-one else?”

“No, I don’t believe there is.” Athos pauses, trying to think of a way to explain that doesn’t involve saying ‘you two are my only friends’, and settles for, “Everybody else I know, I work with.”

He decides to leave out his thoughts regarding Constance.

“Well, I’m sure we can find someone who’d be up for it,” Aramis says brightly. “I do know almost everyone.”

“Not that I’m not grateful, but… why would they?” Athos lets himself think aloud, looking at the sympathy on Porthos’ face and the determined optimism on Aramis’. “I mean, I could see a friend of mine wanting to help, but what’s in it for someone who doesn’t even know me?”

And Porthos looks at him as though he’s being particularly stupid and replies, “Your money?”

“I’m not _paying_ someone to marry me,” Athos objects immediately – a little horrified that Porthos would even suggest such a thing.

“No, of course not,” Aramis soothes, resting a hand on Porthos’ arm. “At least, not in so many words.” When Athos glares at him, he elaborates, “It’s a question of a mutually beneficial arrangement. You’re asking for a hell of a lot. I mean, I’m assuming you need more than just someone to say a few words and sign the register.”

“Indeed,” Athos agrees, remembering Constance’s words from earlier: “It has to look real.”

His friends nod in understanding, and he’s so, _so_ grateful that he doesn’t have to explain everything he’s thinking. That even if he married tomorrow, this wouldn’t just be over: he’s seen what happens to share prices and the board of directors’ confidence after a personal scandal – one where their then-CEO wasn’t even directly involved – and with their confidence in him what it is right now, he knows he can’t afford another.

This company isn’t just his family’s legacy, it’s his life, and he doesn’t know what he’d be without it.

“So you’re asking for a long-term commitment from your potential partner – a few years at the absolute minimum,” Aramis fills in. “You probably want them to make some public appearances, schmoozing fellow execs, that sort of thing. And for them not to openly date anyone else during that time.”

“Yes, that sounds about right.”

The rabbit hole just keeps on going deeper, doesn’t it? The more Athos thinks about what he’s asking of the person who’ll get him out of this mess, the more impossible it seems that he’d ever find someone who’d actually agree.

“And it’s a lot,” Aramis continues, voicing Athos’ own thoughts. “But there are people out there who’d be willing to do all that – not for _money_ , necessarily, but for financial security. If you offer them rent-free living and a job in the company somewhere, that would probably be enough.” He shrugs. “And unlike Ninon, a lot of people just don’t have that much to give up. I know a couple of twenty-somethings living in terrible houseshares, working jobs they hate to pay off their student loans while they try and figure out what to do with their lives – if you come along with something like this, it probably looks like an adventure.”

“Is that normal? Not knowing, I mean?”

Athos can’t imagine what his life would have been like if it hadn’t all been mapped out for him. Frankly, the idea of it sounds terrifying.

Porthos raises an eyebrow. “For those of us who don’t have family businesses? Yeah, it really is.” He leans over to kiss Aramis’ cheek, and Athos drops his gaze, trying to push away the wistfulness that other people’s displays of affection always inspire in him, no matter how firmly he tells himself that that part of his own life is over. “’Scuse me, I’m gonna get going on the food.”

As Porthos gets up and heads in the direction of the kitchen, Athos looks at Aramis. “So, do you have anyone in mind?” he asks, trying for businesslike. “I’d offer everything you suggested, obviously.”

“Yeah – three someones, actually. I’m just mentally ranking them in order of preference.” Aramis grins, then gives Athos a searching look. “I’m assuming you’re not objecting to men?”

Athos quickly shakes his head. “Oh, no. Fortunately, the will doesn’t specify. It’s old enough that I can’t imagine its writer had ever conceived of the possibility.”

He thinks he’d probably agree to marry a blue whale if it got him control of those shares.

“Okay, then I’ll give my first choice a call. His name’s Daniel, he’s a night in with a cup of tea and a book type. Very intelligent, God knows why he’s friends with me. I’ll give him a brief run-down of your situation and we’ll see if he wants to meet you. Okay?”

“Okay,” Athos agrees, trying to force down the spike of alarm he feels when he sees that Aramis is reaching for his phone already, apparently meaning to do this right now.

He drains the last of his tonic water just for something to do as he watches Aramis swipe the screen a few times and then lift the phone to his ear, wishing he wasn’t so aware of the way Aramis is looking straight at him as it rings – followed by the unmistakeable sound of a male voice saying, “ _Hey, Aramis!_ ”

“Daniel! Hi.” The fingers of Aramis’ other hand tap out a rhythm on his knee. “Yes, good, thank you. Actually, I’ve got a proposition for you.”

For the next few minutes, Athos wishes he was anywhere else as he listens to Aramis tell the full story to Daniel – pulling no punches. It’s ridiculous and he knows it, to expect that a perfect stranger would _marry_ him; either because they think it’ll be an adventure or because they really are that desperate, he doesn’t know which he thinks is worse.

Daniel would have to live with him, he realises belatedly; he knows he’s only the CEO of a paints company and not some kind of celebrity, but the timing of the whole thing will undoubtedly look suspicious, and he can imagine one or two of his board members will probably do some digging behind his back. Everything will need to look as watertight as he can make it without actually asking for the unthinkable, and he simply can’t imagine anyone choosing to live like that, not for a complete stranger.

“No, absolutely,” Aramis is saying, “no, I understand” – and Athos decides he doesn’t blame Daniel one bit.

“It’s a no from Daniel, I’m afraid,” Aramis says unnecessarily, as he cancels the call. “Too much of a leap into the unknown for him, I think. But don’t despair just yet. The next person on my list is a guy called d’Artagnan, he’s more outgoing, so he might be more up for it. He is a bit young, though.”

“How young is ‘a bit young’?” Athos asks, not at all sure he likes the sound of this. He has a sudden vision of himself marrying a sixteen year-old – and while under normal circumstances he would have drawn a firm line, he’s worried that he might just be desperate enough to go through with it.

“I’m not sure exactly, but don’t worry, he’s definitely old enough to get into clubs.” Aramis grins, already picking up his phone again. “I’ll ask for you.”

“Thanks. I’ll go and see if Porthos needs any help with the food,” Athos replies hurriedly, getting to his feet and out of the door before Aramis can call him on the fact that he’s clearly running away.

In the kitchen, Porthos is making salad. He waves a hand in greeting, refusing Athos’ offer of help and gesturing towards the kitchen table, where Athos sits down, refusing to look at the cupboard where he knows his friends keep all their alcohol and making himself focus on the back of Porthos’ neck instead.

“What’s happening in there?” Porthos asks, twisting around to look at Athos over his shoulder; and though his tone is casual, Athos can tell he has Porthos’ full attention.

“Aramis is phoning his laundry list of potential spouses.”

Porthos puts down his knife. “Are you okay?”

Athos shrugs, and looks away. “Honestly? I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to do this, you know.”

“Oh, I really do,” Athos counters, just about managing to keep the heat from his tone. “I need to inherit, or I lose the company. My board will make sure of it. And this is the only way. I can’t jeopardise my family’s legacy because of my poor choices.” He just about stops himself from adding _again_.

Porthos sighs. “Well. It’s your life.” He comes over to pour Athos a fresh tonic water, clapping a heavy hand on his shoulder. “You’ll tell us, yeah? If you need anything?”

 _I need a drink_ , Athos can’t help thinking, but instead he just forces a smile onto his face and replies, “Yeah, I will do.”

They’re still looking at each other when he hears approaching footsteps; and they both turn their heads just in time to see Aramis appearing in the doorway, eyes bright with triumph and brandishing his phone like a trophy. “Athos! D’Artagnan’s interested. He wants to meet you. Oh, and don’t worry about the age thing, it turns out he’s twenty-three.”

Athos mentally divides his own age by two and adds seven, and then decides that’s actually the least of his problems right now.

“Oh, that’s fantastic,” he makes himself say, in the hope that that will make it true.

Porthos’ hand squeezes his shoulder, and when Athos looks up his expression is soft and all too knowing. “I’ll put the steaks on. Medium rare?”

“Medium rare,” Athos confirms.

“I want mine dripping blood,” Aramis announces as if it’s news to anyone, plonking himself down in the adjacent chair; and Athos feels himself relax as the conversation turns to something else entirely, letting himself get lost in the easy rhythm of their banter and trying as hard as he can to forget the fact that he’s going to marry a stranger.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning rolls around all too quickly for Athos’ liking; and he entertains the idea of calling d’Artagnan himself for about five seconds before bottling it completely and calling Constance in to ask her to set up the meeting.

“I’ll email you the terms to be included in the contract, and you can get Legal to put it together,” he instructs. “I’d like to meet him to go through it as soon as possible, and make sure he brings a lawyer.”

This is business, after all. It’s not having a chat over a coffee; they’re both getting something they want, and Athos decides his main concern is to get everything sorted as quickly and fairly as possible.

“Will do,” Constance agrees, clicking the cap back on her pen with a strange little smile playing around her lips that Athos doesn’t quite understand, and certainly isn’t going to ask her about.

Determining to forget it, he opens up a new email and puts together a bulleted list of everything he discussed with Aramis and Porthos the day before, adding ‘full repayment of any student loan debt’ and ‘monthly personal allowance’ for good measure, and clicks on Send before he can change his mind; then he pulls up the cheat sheet Constance has written on the company’s planned expansion into Eastern European markets and reads the same paragraph three times before taking a deep breath, going to splash some water on his face and get himself another coffee, then getting a pad of paper out and forcing himself to write longhand notes because apparently it’s the only way he can make himself concentrate on what he’s reading.

Sometimes he really hates his brain, he decides, as the rest of the day progresses in much the same manner: his _situation_ ’s constantly on his mind, but not in a way that’s at all useful. He’s had no new insights, it’s just needless worrying, brooding over the coming unknown.

It’s not that he thinks it’s going to be like the last time. A man he barely knows isn’t _Anne –_ and this is just an arrangement. He hasn’t _fallen_ ; he won’t lose himself again.

Constance emails late in the afternoon to say he’s meeting d’Artagnan at ten thirty tomorrow morning, with a sample contract attached. He doesn’t have a chance to look at it until he gets home, where the first thing he does is grab a fork for his carton of pad thai before sitting down at his desk, opening his laptop up and scanning down the document.

It appears to be a fairly standard looking prenuptial agreement, between him and d’Artagnan as individuals – which is good, he decides, he certainly doesn’t want anything in writing linking his marriage to the company, just in case – promising d’Artagnan everything he outlined to Constance earlier upon their marriage. He’s glad to see a solid confidentiality clause has been included, preventing either of them from discussing the terms of the agreement or its existence with anyone other than immediate family. In the event of divorce, d’Artagnan is entitled to keep everything he’s received.

Athos expects they will divorce before long. He doesn’t think that he could try and enforce a minimum term, even if he wanted to; and and if he can manage to keep d’Artagnan for a few years before the novelty wears off and he decides he wants his own life back then that should be enough, and it will only look as though Athos has made yet another poor decision where his heart is concerned.

At least this is strictly business. At least there’s no danger of it becoming real – because he knows he’s far too battered and embittered to open himself up like that again, even if he did have anything to offer beside the material.

He goes through the document again in more detail, and makes a couple of notes for the morning, before finishing his pad thai and then trying to read but finding he can’t concentrate, his mind once again on tomorrow’s meeting. After that things proceed much as normal: he falls asleep on the sofa and jerks awake ninety minutes later, taking himself to bed only to spend hours lying awake, dozing and waking again, staring at the faint red glow where he’s taped over the numbers on his alarm clock, until light starts to seep in around the edges of the curtains.

He’s early to work, because it beats pretending to sleep, and he manages to keep himself busy for a few hours with odds and ends of correspondence that don’t require any detailed concentration, sipping slowly from a can of energy drink in the hope that the extra sugar will make him appear at least somewhat human.

The realisation that he cares what impression he makes takes him entirely by surprise, so long has it been – though he rationalises it by telling himself that he _does_ need to make a good impression because this might be his only chance, and because he needs d’Artagnan rather more than d’Artagnan needs him.

(Which is another thing he tries very hard not to make a habit of.)

The minutes pass stubbornly one by one, dragging their heels until Athos decides at ten twenty-two that waiting any longer would mean risking being late; and after double-checking that he’s got his notes and which meeting room it is he gets up from his chair, putting his jacket back on to go downstairs. Constance is on the phone at her desk, and he holds up a hand in greeting as he passes.

Along the corridor and down the stairs, the butterflies in his stomach multiplying threefold as he walks – nodding to a few colleagues as he passes, as if it’s a normal day and he’s not going to try and persuade a complete stranger to _marry_ him – around a corner, right, then left – and there he is, sitting opposite Bonacieux, facing the door. Through the glass Athos notes deep olive skin, black hair in a ponytail, his head bent over the contract. The sleeves of his burgundy shirt are rolled up to the elbow – no tie – and his index finger follows the lines as he reads, asking his lawyer something Athos can’t make out.

Then he looks up, sees Athos watching him, and – _grins._

It’s a little hesitant, nervous even, but it’s unmistakeably a grin; and Athos only has a moment to wonder if d’Artagnan’s actually understood the purpose of this whole thing before he realises that he needs to go in right now before he starts to look downright creepy, and reaches for the door handle.

Athos steps inside, and it begins like any other meeting: they all shake hands and introduce themselves, Athos and d’Artagnan and his lawyer Jeanne; and Athos maintains eye contact and repeats _I am pleased to meet you_ in his mind, thinking _this is my future husband_ and then immediately wishing he hadn’t.

“D’Artagnan just needs a few minutes to finish reading the contract,” Jeanne informs them, and Athos excuses himself to get a coffee, accidentally punching in the code for a latte when what he really wants is something black and feeling that he might as well drink it now instead of being wasteful, trying not to think about the way d’Artagnan looked at him – _grinned_ at him – and what it might mean, whether he’s just a disgustingly cheerful person naturally or whether he’s actually _excited_ about this.

By the time he returns, d’Artagnan has finished reading and is sitting and waiting with his hands pressed flat against the paper, looking expectantly at Athos as he sits down in the empty chair beside Bonacieux. D’Artagnan is dark-eyed and his gaze is direct, and he looks considerably more comfortable than Athos feels.

“As you both know, I am happy with this agreement from a strictly legal perspective,” Jeanne begins, tapping her pen on her spiral-bound notepad, “but I believe d’Artagnan has a few questions for you, Athos.”

“Of course,” Athos replies, pressing his own hands flat against the desk to avoid the temptation to start fiddling with anything.

“So, I just want to get this straight,” d’Artagnan begins. He’s frowning slightly, as if something doesn’t quite make sense. “You’re offering me money – an ‘allowance’ – you’re offering to repay my student loans, and give me a _job_ –”

“I can find you a job somewhere in the company that’s commensurate to your skills and experience,” Athos clarifies hastily, not wanting to oversell the position. “I won’t be your manager, and from that point your employment will be your own responsibility.”

“Okay… and what about living costs?”

“The offered allowance is yours, to spend or save. I’ll have no claim on it. You won’t need to contribute anything to household expenses.”

“I might want to, though,” d’Artagnan insists.

“Then… we can open a joint account and draw from that,” Athos decides, thinking as he speaks. “Would you like any of this added to the agreement?”

D’Artagnan automatically looks at Jeanne, who replies, “D’Artagnan’s personal allowance is already protected, but we’d like to add a clause to clarify that he’s not required to contribute to household expenses.”

“Agreed,” Bonacieux replies, at a nod from Athos.

“Okay. But – I don’t actually need a job. Thank you. I’m a graphic designer, and I’m going to keep on doing that.”

“And that’s fine,” Jeanne cuts in, “but we should leave the provision in the agreement. That way if you have a change of heart later down the line you can still take up the offer of employment.”

“That makes sense.” D’Artagnan nods, and then furrows his brow again as he looks back at Athos. “But – this whole contract, it’s about what _I_ get. There’s nothing in here about you.” He taps his fingers on the paper, his gaze honest, direct and clear in a way that suddenly has realising Athos they’re not both here to do business at all, that d’Artagnan’s motivations – whatever they are, Athos can barely fathom them – are quite different. “What do _you_ get out of this?”

“What I get is the union,” Athos replies, immediately wondering if he should have said _our union_ or even _marriage_ and then glad he didn’t. “Although – I do have several requests. None of them binding, though.”

“What requests?” d’Artagnan asks, leaning back a little in his chair.

Athos takes another sip of his disappointing latte before interlocking his fingers, wanting to fold his arms but knowing it’s terrible form, especially when his jacket’s still on. “Firstly, I would strongly prefer that we live together. I work long hours and the house is large enough, I won’t be under your feet all the time.”

“Of course.” There’s a beat before d’Artagnan unexpectedly smiles. “Beats paying rent.”

“Indeed.” Athos politely returns his smile. “And, I would ask that if you meet someone and begin a relationship with them, it’s kept discreet. It’s none of my business, of course, and I’m by no means a celebrity – but I still have to consider how things will be perceived.”

He’s being horribly vague, of course, but he’s hoping he doesn’t actually need to say ‘you need to not look like you’re openly cheating on me’; and it seems to be enough, d’Artagnan’s nodding in understanding. He looks worried, as if it’s just hit him how much of his freedom is truly being curtailed; and perhaps Athos is a bad person but instead of giving it time to sink in and letting d’Artagnan’s doubt grow, he presses on: “From time to time I might ask you along to business events. Dinners, soirées, that sort of thing. You’re under no obligation, of course, but I’d like to hope you might accompany me.”

“Of course,” d’Artagnan agrees easily. “Though I don’t know anything about paints. Does that matter?”

Athos can’t help smiling, amused despite himself. “No, not at all. I think everyone will assume –” He almost bites his tongue in shock as he realises he was just about to say _we’re a love match_.

_This is what happens when you let yourself relax!_

“…that’s not your reason for attendance,” he manages to finish.

Fortunately, d’Artagnan doesn’t seem to notice anything amiss. “Well, yes. I’d be happy to.”

“Good. And finally, I don’t have alcohol in the house, and I’d ask that you honour this. What you do when you’re out of the house is of course your business.”

“Sure. Can I ask why?”

“I’m an alcoholic,” Athos says bluntly, ignoring Bonacieux’s tutting of disapproval from beside him. He’s not stupid enough to put it to paper, but he’s not going to pretend that anything good could come of not telling d’Artagnan. “I’m sober, and I’d prefer to stay that way.”

“Yes, of course,” d’Artagnan replies immediately, expression appropriately serious.

“That’s everything I wanted to discuss,” Athos says, taking another sip of coffee to hide his sudden resurgence of awkwardness. It’s not that he’s _ashamed,_ exactly – if anything, his alcoholism is the least objectionable aspect of his past behaviour – but it feels strange to just _say_ it, when everybody important to him has always known, mostly from seeing it first-hand.

“Okay,” d’Artagnan says easily, smiling again. “So, do I sign now or…?”

Athos blinks at him in shock.

Fortunately Bonacieux is already taking over, explaining that he needs to amend the agreement as discussed and print out fresh copies, and if they can wait a few minutes then Mr de la Fère is happy to sign today. He goes back to his office and Athos offers to bring Jeanne and d’Artagnan another drink so he has an excuse to leave the room again, deliberately stalling in the kitchen area and telling himself it’s to give d’Artagnan some time alone with his lawyer, which he no doubt needs in order to come to a sensible and reasoned decision.

He times it well, coming back only about ten seconds before Bonacieux; then they all receive a copy of the agreement for a final reread, and Athos fishes his good pen out of his jacket pocket and signs once, twice, three times, unable to avoid thinking  _I’m sealing my fate_ and a little surprised to find he isn’t feeling anything at all.

Constance has arranged for them to go and give notice to marry the very same day, in order to get the whole process pushed through as quickly as possible, and so they leave Bonacieux and Jeanne behind and Athos leads d’Artagnan out of the building and over to his car. It’s the first time they’ve been alone together, and while he has no idea at all what to say, he can’t help thinking that the idea of saying nothing would be worse; and so he makes himself look around and say, “Lovely day today.”

“It’s gorgeous,” d’Artagnan agrees. “Thank you. For the lawyer.”

“I’m sorry?” Athos asks distractedly, fishing his car keys out of his trouser pocket.

“I mean for providing Jeanne for me,” d’Artagnan clarifies. “As I said I didn’t have a lawyer.”

It must be Constance’s doing, Athos realises; she really does think of everything. “Oh, she doesn’t work for me. She’s fully independent. One should never sign anything binding without getting it looked over.”

He unlocks the door and they get inside, and it isn’t until Athos is driving them onto the ring road that d’Artagnan asks without warning:

“I have a personal question. Are you attracted to men?”

For a moment, Athos doesn’t actually know how to answer that, it having been so long since he’s had to put it into words, or try to.

Most people he’d flat-out tell it was none of their business; even with Aramis, he’s once or twice had to give him a quelling look and pointedly change the subject. But d’Artagnan’s agreeing to marry him, so Athos supposes he does owe him the information.

“Somewhat,” he replies eventually, keeping his eyes firmly on the road.

“Good,” d’Artagnan replies, sounding strangely satisfied to Athos’ ears. “Aramis said he didn’t know, not for certain.”

“And I assume he’s not going to hear it from you,” Athos shoots back.

“My lips are sealed,” d’Artagnan replies. “I’m bisexual, by the way. Very definitely.”

Athos belatedly realises – with a slightly sick feeling – where this sounds like it’s going, and if Aramis has involved himself he is going to _kill_ him. “D’Artagnan. You realise I don’t – I’m not _expecting_ anything.”

“Oh! No, your virtue’s safe with me,” d’Artagnan teases; though when Athos doesn’t reply immediately, just keeps his eyes on the road, he can feel the tension return. “I was just curious,” d’Artagnan adds, his tone subdued. “I’m sorry, I’ve made this weird.”

“No, you haven’t,” Athos reassures, glancing at him briefly. “It was already weird.”

D’Artagnan meets his eyes, and they share a tentative smile. It’s the first real moment of connection they’ve had, and Athos supposes that even failing all else, they can bond through the surreality of their situation.

“What else has Aramis told you, then?” he asks, deliberately casual.

“Oh, that you work too hard,” d’Artagnan replies, just a little too quickly and innocently for Athos to think that’s _all_ it is.

Still, he has can afford to play the long game here. He has time.

They ride the rest of the way in silence, but at least it feels a little more relaxed.

After that, everything goes smoothly. They’re just on time for their appointment at the registry office, and spend a good hour filling in various forms and answering questions about the ceremony they want (civil, and quick). D’Artagnan doesn’t raise any eyebrows at Athos’ production of his divorce certificate, which suggests he already knew, and Athos decides he doesn’t care if it means he doesn’t need to talk about it; and then Athos drives him back home, where they establish that d’Artagnan doesn’t intend to invite anyone except his friend Lucie to the wedding, and between her, Aramis and Porthos they have sufficient people to use as witnesses.

As Athos pulls up outside d’Artagnan’s house – wheelie bins in the front garden, he can’t help noting, and weeds sprouting between the tiles – he turns to him, expecting a parting word, perhaps a handshake, and an agreement to see him at the wedding; but instead d’Artagnan bites his lip for a moment before asking, “Could we have dinner or something, before the wedding? I mean, I’d like to get to know the man I’m marrying.”

“I’m afraid I’m too busy,” the panicky part of Athos’ brain replies automatically. “I’m going to Sheffield for the weekend, and then I’m in Poland and Lithuania after that, I don’t get back until the night before.”

If he’s honest with himself, there’s technically a free evening or two within that time – but it’s still better they don’t, for both their sakes. He never sleeps well away from his own bed, and any time he has at home will probably be spent firmly horizontal, not wanting to go to yet another restaurant and make conversation with yet another stranger.

They’ll have enough time once they’re married, and though Athos knows he’s just putting off the inevitable, he has trouble caring.

“Oh. That’s alright,” d’Artagnan lies, though he can’t entirely hide his disappointment. “Aramis wasn’t exaggerating, was he.”

Athos gives him an apologetic smile. “It’s a lot of work, being the figurehead. On which note, I have to get back.”

“Yeah, of course.” D’Artagnan immediately unbuckles his seatbelt, reaching for his backpack with the other hand. “See you on the big day, then.”

“Lovely to meet you,” Athos says, offering his hand; and after a moment’s hesitation d’Artagnan takes it and shakes firmly, before getting out of the car and heading for his front door, not looking back.

 

* * *

 

Sheffield, Poland and Lithuania involve different foods and different accents, but the main themes of wall-to-wall meetings, restaurant dinners and inoffensive hotel rooms carry through. Athos accepts as many dinner invitations as he can, knowing from experience that nothing’s worse than solitary evenings in hotels, but that brings with it its own challenges: it’s a lot harder to be an alcoholic in Eastern Europe than it is at home, and despite his office arranging in advance that no alcohol would be present he still has to turn down several offers. Luckily vodka was never his tipple of choice, nor was he exactly a social drinker; but both the insomnia and the cravings are worse, and it’s all he can do to remain pleasant and focused and count down the days until he’s home.

He barely thinks of d’Artagnan, except to send Constance an email at two in the morning asking her to make sure his betrothed has a decent suit for the wedding.

He finally gets home at three in the afternoon on Wednesday, after surprising himself by dozing in the taxi from the airport, and strips down to his boxers before falling asleep on top of his bed; and when the doorbell shocks him awake two hours later he considers swearing viciously, but decides he hasn’t the energy.

Muttering under his breath about the general public and their shocking fucking timing, he pulls on jeans and a T-shirt and slopes downstairs, opening the front door to reveal Porthos, who (unusually for him) has a shirt on, and looks only slightly apologetic.

“What the hell do you want?”

“Aramis sent me. You’re coming to dinner. And he won’t take no for an answer.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Athos grumbles, but there’s no heat in it. Try as he might, he can’t be angry at them for any length of time; and he supposes that this way, he might even sleep tonight. “Alright. But I’m showering first.”

“No worries,” Porthos grins. “I’ll wait.”

Half an hour later, they arrive at Porthos’ and Aramis’. When the front door opens it’s to the sound of voices within; and Athos immediately looks suspiciously at Porthos. “Who did you invite?”

“Just d’Artagnan,” Porthos says, his hand coming up to Athos’ shoulder, nudging him oh so gently inside. “Look. I know you’ve been away, but he told Aramis he wasn’t going to see you.” His meaningful look tells Athos exactly what they both thought of that. “We rang Constance and asked when you’d be back. It’s just a few hours, I swear. The barbecue’s already up to temperature and you can still have that early night.”

“Alright. Just a few hours.” Athos supposes he should be annoyed at being manipulated, but really he can’t help feeling warm inside to know they _care_ enough to come and drag him out of his hole. Plus it takes the pressure off a bit, to not be alone with d’Artagnan.

“Good man.” Inside the hallway, Porthos pulls him into a brief bear hug, kicking the door shut with his foot before shouting out, “I’ve got him!”

Heading back through to the kitchen, Athos and Porthos enter into a spirited argument about video games and their role in modern society – from which Athos quickly establishes that d’Artagnan thinks they’re a great social force for good, whereas Aramis thinks they’re just something to pass the time while you’re waiting for important things to happen – but on seeing him Aramis stops mid-sentence to exclaim, “Athos! Here you are.” He jumps up from his chair, grabbing a glass from the cupboard to fix him some fruit punch that he insists on calling a ‘mocktail’, probably expressly to annoy Athos, as Porthos pretends to berate Aramis for abandoning the barbecue before disappearing through the double doors into the garden.

Athos notices that d’Artagnan is also standing, hovering expectantly; and Athos steps forward not quite knowing how to greet him, but still managing to be surprised when d’Artagnan leans in and brushes his lips over Athos’ cheek, saying simply that he’s glad Athos could make it.

When d’Artagnan steps back, Athos realises Aramis is watching him, the expression on his face particularly smug; and he deliberately glares at him as he takes his drink, before heading out into the garden after Porthos.

It turns out Porthos wasn’t even exaggerating for once: the coals are already glowing, and he’s already busy loading the barbecue with a medley of burgers, sausages and kebabs, as Athos sips his punch and answers Porthos’ questions about his trip, making sure to turn and smile politely at Aramis and d’Artagnan as they come out to join them, loaded up with bread and salad.

It isn’t long before the smell of cooking meat starts to rise up from the barbecue, reminding Athos that he hasn’t eaten since breakfast and he’s actually bloody starving – and as soon as it’s ready and they all pile their plates high and tuck in, seated around Aramis’ and Porthos’ garden table, Athos feels himself let go of the last of the tension he’s been carrying for what feels like weeks. There’s something about breaking bread with people you love, he reflects, slicing open a crusty roll and buttering generously, a true primal pleasure, that he’s always surprised to find how much he’s missed.

He’s keeping one eye on d’Artagnan all the while, relaxed enough to be curious; he’s arguing good-naturedly with Porthos about the motivations of characters in a TV show Athos has never seen, so he doesn’t learn much from the content of the conversation, but from d’Artagnan’s manner he decides that he’s fearless as only the young are, confident in his viewpoint and determined to give as good as he gets. He seems normal, the apparent streak of insanity that led him to agree to this marriage notwithstanding, and Athos supposes that’s good. It means he’ll adapt quickly, hopefully content to appear occasionally in public with Athos for a few years at least before he meets someone else. Good-looking, outgoing… he can’t imagine d’Artagnan will be wanting for admirers for long.

Athos stifles a yawn behind his hand and apologises immediately, getting up to pace around the garden so he doesn’t fall asleep, as Porthos and Aramis slowly start to clear away the remains of the food, returning with more punch and topping up everyone’s glasses. Athos sneaks his Blackberry out of his pocket and checks his work email, sighing and immediately wishing he hadn’t as he realises there are at least five urgent things he’ll have to deal with tomorrow, _and_ he’s out of the office half the day for the wedding.

His stomach lurches as he remembers, and he isn’t quite sure if it’s anxiety or indigestion, but he decides this introspection isn’t helping anything and puts his Blackberry back in his pocket.

He turns back towards the table, only to see that Aramis and Porthos have apparently both gone in and d’Artagnan’s sitting there alone, watching him steadily. The sun’s setting behind him, and Athos can’t clearly see his face.

“Work,” he says, because he feels like he has to say _something_ and that’s the first thing that comes to mind. “There’s always something.”

“But nothing that needs fixing right this moment, right?” d’Artagnan asks – and Athos is sure he shouldn’t sound so _knowing_.

“They’d have called me,” he concedes, as d’Artagnan gets up from his chair and saunters over to him, hands in his pockets.

“This is so weird,” he confesses in an undertone, standing just a little too close. He’s smiling, as though they have a shared secret. “I mean, we’re getting _married_ tomorrow. I don’t even know you!”

Athos’ brain considers and rejects _We have time_ and _You don’t actually have to_ before deciding just to stick with a non-committal hum, but fortunately d’Artagnan doesn’t seem to be waiting for an answer, looking thoughtful for a moment and then giving him a swift, disarming grin, that Athos decides seems to be something of a feature. “Well, at least it won’t be boring, right?”

“Right,” Athos agrees, even though he secretly thinks that boring might be for the best – when without warning, d’Artagnan leans in and kisses him softly on the mouth.

Athos freezes; and d’Artagnan lingers briefly before pulling away, suddenly looking several years younger and a lot less sure of himself. “I didn’t want our first kiss to be right at the altar,” he explains. “It’s a bit – you know.”

For a moment, there’s a horrible silence.

“It’s a registry office. There’s not actually an altar,” Athos points out, a little desperately, and then immediately wants to kick himself – but d’Artagnan’s grinning again, and for a moment Athos wants nothing more than to pour half a bottle of whisky down his throat as he starts to ask himself if this whole marriage of convenience thing is going to work out anything like how he’d intended.

He’d expected a business arrangement, that they’d sign a few pieces of paper and get on with living their own lives. Not that they’d be getting involved in each other’s lives, having dinners with his friends and God knows what else – which is exactly the problem, he doesn’t know _what_ on earth to expect – and Athos is starting to wonder just how colossally stupid he’s been.

 _Don’t think about that now_ , he tells himself firmly, trying to ignore the way d’Artagnan’s still smiling at him and that the last thing he wants is for Aramis and Porthos to come back out and see. _You’ve just got to get through tomorrow first, and then we’ll jump off that bridge when we come to it._

He’s starting to wonder just how far he’s going to fall when he does.


	3. Chapter 3

Athos stands before the altar, waiting and waiting and not daring to turn around, because then he’ll have to accept that d’Artagnan’s not coming.

He can hear the congregation whispering behind him, and though he doesn’t exactly care what any of them think, between the inevitable embarrassment and the realisation of just how _lost_ he feels, to realise everything he’s worked so hard for is going to fail, that he’s let down the family name, is too much; and he stares at the golden embroidery on the crisp white altar cloth in the hope that if he stands here and refuses to turn around then eventually everybody will have to just get up and leave, and let him grieve alone.

Then the whispers drop abruptly away a second before the band strikes up – and Athos turns, powerless to resist his cue.

There he is – walking down the aisle towards him, in a high-necked ivory satin dress with a veil over his face that makes Athos think of a gothic heroine, train pooling on the stone floor behind him. He’s on the arm of Athos’ dead grandfather; and Athos realises _this must be a dream_ just as they pass a woman he suddenly recognises as Anne, her skin almost as white as the wedding dress she wears, an enigmatic smile on her face and a gunshot wound between her eyes.

She and d’Artagnan turn and look at each other just as Athos forces his eyes open with a gasp.

It’s not real. His grandfather is dead and his ex-wife isn’t, and she certainly isn’t going to appear like Mrs Rochester, to lay bare all his past sins – but the animal part of his mind doesn’t quite understand, and after a few minutes of staring at the ceiling while his breathing settles he makes himself get up and make coffee, instead of just lying there dwelling.

 _I’m older now,_ he reminds himself as he drinks his coffee, forces down a slice of toast. _And wiser._

_And this is just business._

 

* * *

 

 

Of course, there are no crises.

Everyone’s on time, and appropriately dressed, and before Athos knows it they’re already being called in. They stand in front of the registrar and Athos takes d’Artagnan’s hands in his and repeats his vows, looking d’Artagnan in the eye and not _meaning_ them exactly, but thinking at least, _I know it’s not much, but I’ll try and do right by you._

The first time he married, he had never meant anything more; but he’s learned since that words are just words and it’s actions that matter, and when they kiss nothing changes at all.

First they, then Porthos and Aramis sign the register, and it’s done. They all walk to a nearby coffee shop on Aramis’ recommendation and have coffee and chocolate brownies, d’Artagnan ordering something that’s all foamed milk and hazelnut syrup, and Athos makes a conscious effort not to roll his eyes and to actually remember the order, because ultimately people like what they like and he’s certainly seen enough snobbishness for one lifetime. They talk about d’Artagnan’s struggles in a graphic design, which Athos gets the impression is a business mostly made up of customers who have no interest in paying for services rendered; and after an hour he leaves them all with his spare key to move d’Artagnan in and walks back to the office, where he takes his fresh marriage certificate down to Bonacieux thinking, _it’s done._

Upon reaching his desk he finds that the five urgent things from last night have become twelve things in his absence, and they keep him busy until almost eight in the evening. Constance is kind enough to bring him lunch, and he just about remembers to send her home on time, though by the time the last fire is out he’s rubbing his eyes every few minutes and wishing he could go home to an empty house and his own bed, but he knows d’Artagnan’s there, waiting for him.

 _This is the price you pay,_ he reminds himself as he walks home, choosing the meandering route along the river, occasionally dodging cyclists and evening dog walkers as the sun sets behind him.

He gets inside to find the hallway full of stacked cardboard boxes and a few black bin bags, and d’Artagnan in his kitchen. He’s changed into jeans and T-shirt and is tucking into a bowl of pasta, the smell making Athos’ mouth water.

“Hey.” He raises his spoon in greeting. “Sorry I didn’t wait. It’s still warm though.”

“I wouldn’t have expected you to,” Athos replies, loosening his tie before getting a bowl of his own out of the cupboard. “Thank you for cooking. It’s certainly better than microwaving something.”

“Oh, totally. I got the impression that you, er, don’t really cook.”

“That would be putting it mildly.” Normally the only things in Athos’ fridge are condiments and various flavoured sparkling waters, his freezer’s filled to the brim with ready meals and almost everything in the cupboards was bought by Porthos or Aramis, and is probably out of date by now. “You do?”

“Yeah. I like to eat well, and I mostly have the time.”

“Oh, I do too. Like to eat well, that is. I just prefer to have someone else handle the cooking part.” His bowl filled, Athos sits down opposite d’Artagnan and takes a forkful of pasta, the flavours immediately exploding in his mouth. “This is delicious. What’s in it?”

“Tuna and tomatoes, obviously. Black olives, anchovies, capers, garlic. Chilli oil. A bit of fresh parsley. I might get some herbs, if that’s okay with you?”

“Whatever you like. You absolutely don’t need my permission to do things, you know. This is your home too now.” The way d’Artagnan’s looking at him is a bit too unnervingly open, so Athos tries for funny. “Though I’d prefer to be consulted on any major structural changes.”

“No knocking through walls while you’re at work. Got it.” D’Artagnan grins. “But I did want to ask – where are you putting me?”

“In what was the guest bedroom, not that I need one. The bed’s good, though you’ll probably need some more storage. Just let me know.”

D’Artagnan nods. “I’ll definitely need some bookshelf space. And a desk.”

“Oh, there’s some room on the shelves in the study. I certainly don’t expect you to keep all your things in your room,” Athos clarifies hurriedly. “And you can use my desk in there, for now at least. I rarely work from home.” He gestures at his half-finished pasta. “I’ll give you the guided tour once I’ve finished this.”

Ten minutes later, Athos shows d’Artagnan round the remaining rooms – realising that he probably won’t be finding his house to be somewhat on the large side any more – before offering to help him carry his things upstairs. It was mostly out of politeness, but as he lugs yet another box that feels as though it must contain cast iron up unhelpfully narrow stairs, Athos reflects that it’s better than spending the rest of the evening rattling round not knowing what to do with himself, all too aware that he’s no longer alone.

He’s lived alone for so long, and never with anyone who wasn’t family, apart from Anne – though it pulls him up short when he remembers that legally speaking, his relationship with d’Artagnan now is the same as his relationship was with her.

He doesn’t want to remember, so he offers to unpack d’Artagnan’s books instead – partly because looking at any of his other possessions seems too intimate, also because you can tell a lot about someone from their books – and takes those boxes through to the study, where he shifts his own things around on the shelves to make room. D’Artagnan only has a box and a half of books, most of which turn out to be work-related, but the fiction he has looks well-thumbed, including a few children’s books. He’s not much of a reader, then, but the books he does love he loves fiercely.

Athos eventually leaves him to it, sitting on his laptop in the living room to go over his notes for tomorrow morning’s meetings; and when he goes to bed, he sleeps more soundly than he has in weeks.

 

* * *

 

Over the weeks that follow, Athos is surprised by how quickly living with d’Artagnan starts to feel routine. They don’t actually see that much of each other – Athos works into the evening most days and d’Artagnan spends a lot of evenings out, seeing friends and trying to find someone to take over his lease – but Athos frequently comes home to find a post-it note stuck on the fridge, saying ‘DINNER!’ in d’Artagnan’s large, expressive hand, and something delicious and freshly-made waiting for him in the fridge or on the counter. It’s very kind of him, especially since Athos never does anything for him in return, but Athos tells himself firmly not to look a gift horse in the mouth and just to enjoy it while it lasts.

On the evenings that d’Artagnan is in then he’s normally eaten by the time Athos gets home, and after greeting each other they generally go off and do their own thing. It’s not that Athos is _avoiding_ him, exactly – rather he’s all too aware that d’Artagnan doesn’t owe him anything, including his company, and Athos doesn’t have a claim on his time just because they’re sharing a house.

Besides, it’s not like he has much to offer. He doesn’t really know what d’Artagnan likes or is interested in, apart from design and cooking, which to Athos are both fairly alien worlds, and all he does with his own life is work and read the odd novel. Which, for him, is enough – he’s all too aware that it was only his grandfather falling ill that really pulled him out of the hole he’d crawled into and made him do his duty at last, and without that he’d probably have drunk himself to death – but it doesn’t mean he can easily relate to a graphic designer in his mid-twenties. (Athos’ own mid-twenties feel as though they happened to another person.)

Ultimately though, he doesn’t have _time_ to make awkward overtures: the next board meeting’s coming up fast, and although Athos knows that thanks to d’Artagnan his position as majority shareholder is now secure, that certainly doesn’t mean it’s going to be a breeze. He knows that earning his fellow board members’ full confidence means playing the long game, involves long-term planning and hard evidence that his plans for Eastern European distribution are neither too conservative or too ambitious; and with sleep getting gradually harder to come by as the day approaches he decides that working late into the night is preferable to spending his hours staring at the ceiling. There’s always detail to be compiled for his reports, making sure he has figures to hand with which to answer every possible question.

D’Artagnan’s never up by the time Athos leaves in the morning (which is presumably one of the perks of freelancing), so Athos takes to making a whole pot of coffee in the mornings and leaving it on warm, to go at least a little way towards repaying him for all the dinners. It’s not much, he knows that, but when he comes home on the night before the board meeting to find a post-it note stuck to the fridge that reads, ‘DINNER’S IN THE OVEN. THANKS FOR THE COFFEE!’, Athos is too stressed out to care about the fact that it makes him feel the best he has in days.

D’Artagnan has made shepherd’s pie. It simultaneously reminds Athos of his mother and of school, which is funny and a little tragic all at once, and when he takes the first bite and almost wants to cry he starts to realise just how much this meeting is getting to him.

He tries – optimistically – to have an early night, and after an hour trying to sleep, thirty minutes reading and almost another hour trying to sleep again he gets back up and has chamomile tea and a paracetamol for the oncoming headache. He really wishes he could take a sleeping pill but knows he can’t afford to be groggy in the morning, and so contents himself with sipping his tea (which he doesn’t really like), wondering if it’s worth trying to do any more preparation but knowing anything he can come up with at this hour won’t be worth the paper it’s written on, when he hears the front door open and close.

D’Artagnan, of course, who he’d vaguely known wasn’t in but then forgotten about; and Athos appreciates that at least he’s making an effort to be quiet, even though the kitchen door’s open and d’Artagnan can no doubt see he’s still up.

He hears the double thump of shoes being kicked off – d’Artagnan never bothers undoing his laces, Athos has noticed, and how weird is it to know things like _that_ about a person when you barely know anything else – and moments later, he sticks his head round the kitchen door.

“Hey. You’re still up.”

The whispering is a bit much, though.

“I am,” Athos agrees. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Oh. Well, I’ll just get a drink.”

As he watches d’Artagnan walk across the kitchen to the cupboard above the sink, it’s something in the slow, deliberate yet unsteady way he walks, then the way he sets the glass down on the counter just a little too hard, that makes Athos realise.

It shouldn’t bother him, he knows that. It’s been more than a year, for God’s sake – and even though he doubts he’ll ever _not_ miss alcohol, he thinks he’s found peace with the fact that when he stopped drinking, the rest of the world didn’t. He doesn’t have to cross the road any more when he sees drunk people coming towards him on a Friday night; he’s sat opposite obnoxious men at business dinners while they’ve split a bottle of wine and he’s ordered sparkling water, and just accepted it as his lot.

But _here_ , in his own home when he wasn’t expecting it, at a time when his defences are already weakened – and it’s d’Artagnan’s right to drink when he’s out and to come back and sleep it off, of course it is, but –

“Excuse me,” Athos mumbles, pushing his chair back a little too hard from the table, the screeching sound it makes cutting through the atmosphere as effectively as a dropped bomb.

“You _are_ avoiding me!” d’Artagnan exclaims, slamming his glass down on the counter hard enough that water splashes over the rim and onto his hand, the noise making Athos wince. “I thought so. You were the one who wanted me here in the first place, remember?”

He’s hurt and he’s angry; and something in that accusing stare reminds Athos of himself – of the man he used to be, in those shameful days he tries not to think of – and that’s enough.

“You’re drunk, and I can’t be here,” he gets out, pushing himself unsteadily to his feet before striding from the room and up to his bedroom, closing the door and locking it, then dropping his dressing gown on the floor, getting under the covers and curling in on himself in the dark.

He holds the tension until he hears d’Artagnan come up the stairs a few minutes later – followed by the faint humming of his toothbrush and then the toilet flushing, doors opening and closing, and then silence.

He _has_ been avoiding him, hasn’t he?

For all he knows that d’Artagnan uses an electric toothbrush, has a fondness for salted caramel chocolate and constantly leaves discarded hoodies in the living room (and Athos is sure it’s at least three different hoodies), it’s been almost a month and Athos barely knows anything about him that actually _matters_. Hell, he could probably count the number of times they’ve had a proper conversation on one hand.

D’Artagnan, unlike Athos, has tried. He’s fed Athos probably more days than he hasn’t, and whenever they see each other he makes tentative attempts at conversation that Athos has always assumed were just out of politeness, but he’s finally realising were actually in earnest – and Athos certainly owes him more than _this._

One would think that realising you’ve been behaving like a total shit gets easier over time, but apparently not.

It’s a long time before Athos sleeps.

 

* * *

 

In the end, despite everything, the board meeting goes quite well. (Although to be fair, Athos thinks it’s due to the thoroughness of his preparation, rather than the fact he probably looks as though sugar and caffeine are the only things stopping him from collapsing.) His five-year plan is well received and all the discussions they have are productive, with not even the most difficult of his board members digging their heels in on any points, and he leaves the room afterwards with the feeling that none of them think any less of him than they had when they went in – and given that he’s always known he’s playing the long game, he supposes that’s all he can ask for.

Despite the fact that he still needs a nap or twelve he feels fairly cheerful for the rest of the day, right up until Constance suggests that he goes home on time for once to celebrate, and he abruptly remembers d’Artagnan there, waiting for him.

Well. Not waiting for _him_ , but still.

And little as he wants to, he knows he needs to deal with this now. He doesn’t know d’Artagnan well enough to know what he’ll do, and the longer Athos leaves it the worse it’ll get, the more strained and awkward, and they do need to be able to live together if nothing else.

So at five minutes past five he packs up his laptop and collects Constance on the way, walking her to the front door to make sure she actually leaves too, and then walks home by the direct route this time.

He gets in to find a white box on the kitchen table from the city’s fanciest bakery, with a post-it note stuck on the top that reads, ‘SORRY x’.

Inside is a delicious-looking macaron. His favourite, which he knows for a fact he’s never told d’Artagnan.

For a moment, Athos just leans forward and braces his palms flat against the table, letting them take his weight, feeling strangely winded.

He’s simply not used to this level of consideration, nor to having someone in his life who wants to give it, and the fact that d’Artagnan thinks _he’s_ the one who needs to apologise for last night –

He stands abruptly and walks through to the study, knocking sharply on the door even though it’s slightly open.

“Hey.” D’Artagnan’s head snaps up – like a startled rabbit, Athos thinks, entirely inappropriately. He looks almost _scared_ of him.

“Look, _I_ should be apologising to _you_ ,” Athos says without preamble, as d’Artagnan slowly puts down the pen to his graphics tablet, his eyes never leaving Athos’. “I realise I really haven’t been very hospitable since you moved in.”

“I won’t come home drunk again. I promise.”

“ _No._ No, it really is okay.” Athos lets himself properly into the room and pulls up a chair of his own, forearms braced on his thighs, hands clasped. “I was just having a bad evening and you took me by surprise. Next time it won’t be a problem, I’m sure of it.” D’Artagnan still looks unconvinced, so he adds, “Part of accepting you’re an alcoholic means accepting that when you stop drinking, other people are going to keep on doing it. If I can handle business dinners with people who keep forgetting not to offer me vodka shots, I can handle you coming back having had a few too many.”

D’Artagnan appears to consider this for a moment, before saying, “Can I ask – why don’t you drink? I mean, when you want to. What stops you?”

The question takes Athos by surprise, and he needs a few moments to decide what exactly he wants to share about his particular manner of self-indulgent binging, by which time d’Artagnan is already apologising, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, it’s a fair question. What stops me drinking is that I can’t drink and do my job – and I’ve learned that the hard way. As much as I want a drink sometimes, I know that it’s never just going to be one drink, and I’d rather stay in control of my life.”

D’Artagnan nods. “That makes sense.”

“It is what it is,” Athos agrees, getting to his feet. “Well, I’ll leave you to it.”

D’Artagnan reaches out and puts a hand on his arm.

“Wait,” he says, his grip firm just above the bones of Athos’ wrist. “Let’s have dinner together. This is what I meant, yesterday. What I should have said. That I want us to spend more time together, and actually get to know you. It feels weird, living in the same house but hardly ever seeing you. Like we’re dancing around each other.”

 _I probably have been_ , Athos concedes. “Of course. I just didn’t want to impose. I know you’ve got your own life.”

“And you’re already a part of it,” d’Artagnan points out, “as I am of yours. I really don’t know how you thought this whole ‘marriage of convenience’ business was going to work.”

“I don’t think I did.” Athos isn’t sure if the noise he makes is a sigh or a huff of amusement; probably a bit of both. “Or rather, I only thought in the short-term. It’s a classic error.”

“So now, we build a relationship. Even if that’s nothing more than housemates who occasionally eat or watch TV together.” D’Artagnan grins again, and Athos decides he’s starting to rather like that grin, and just how easy it seems to be to trigger it. “I still need to catch up on Doctor Who.”

“I can’t stand sci-fi,” Athos confesses. “No idea why. I walked out of Lord of the Rings.”

That makes d’Artagnan laugh. “I’m actually not surprised. Anyway,” he continues, before Athos can ask, “I’ve been working all afternoon and I haven’t been shopping. Takeaway?”

“Takeaway,” Athos confirms. “And then you’re helping me eat that macaron, because I was as much to blame as you were.”

“Not a chance,” d’Artagnan declares. “That was a gift. Besides, I had a massive slice of chocolate cake earlier, and there’s still ice cream in the freezer.”

“Then I’m paying for dinner.”

“Deal.” D’Artagnan holds out his hand – and Athos shakes it, feeling himself cautiously mirror d’Artagnan’s smile.

They’ll figure this out, then, and it looks like it’s going to be more than Athos could have hoped for.

 

* * *

 

 

Athos and d’Artagnan quickly end up spending almost every evening they’re both at home together, which turns out to be two or three times a week. D’Artagnan’s social life is no less active, and Athos’ work no less demanding, though he does find he’s less likely to stay at his desk into the evening on the days he knows d’Artagnan’s going to be at home.

Athos gets WhatsApp, because apparently that’s what people younger than him do these days instead of texting, and at least once a week they start to coordinate when they’ll eat together rather than leaving it to chance. The first time d’Artagnan referred to one of these evenings as ‘date nights’, Athos nearly choked on his drink – and when d’Artagnan burst out laughing at the look that was apparently on his face, Athos decided he could at least call them that ironically.

Which was all fine until Athos accepted a calendar invitation from d’Artagnan for Friday Steak Date Night, forgetting exactly who else had access to his personal calendar until Constance told him on his way out of the office to enjoy his date, throwing in a broad wink for good measure.

Athos isn’t sure if it still counts as ironic at this point, but he isn’t sure he cares either. At least Aramis hasn’t heard about it yet, although that’s probably only a matter of time.

While Athos prefers being around others to being alone, he’s still never made friends particularly quickly or easily – so he’s surprised by just how much fun he has with d’Artagnan. They quickly fall into a rhythm: d’Artagnan cooks when he fancies it and Athos picks something up when he doesn’t; they watch box sets, Athos introducing d’Artagnan to The West Wing and d’Artagnan introducing him to Community; sometimes they play cards, Athos giving d’Artagnan a comprehensive education in poker not because it’s much good playing with two people but because he feels it’s his duty to prepare him for all the ways Porthos cheats.

They cook together and eat together and talk, and the more they talk the more Athos starts to understand why d’Artagnan said yes to him in the first place. He reveals himself to be fiercely ambitious and determined to follow his heart in a profession that’s clearly oversubscribed and underappreciated, committed enough to put everything he has into being successful, and arrogant or naïve enough to feel wronged when the outcome isn’t equal to his input. He’s as willing to believe the best of everyone (and probably feels equally wronged when they let him down) as Athos himself once was, and though Athos had never had to fight for anything he wanted until the past few years, he feels as though he can relate all the same.

Sometimes it’s almost like looking at a younger version of himself, and he just hopes that d’Artagnan’s smart enough to avoid making the same mistakes.

Though d’Artagnan doesn’t exactly probe he’s clearly sincere in his friendliness and his desire to get to know Athos, and in return Athos finds himself sharing more than he expected, one evening even telling the story of his short-lived professional fencing career, and not shying away from the fact that it ended when he met his future wife and started failing drug tests – the two things very much related – and couldn’t quite bring himself to care.

He isn’t quite sure how he expects d’Artagnan to respond; but d’Artagnan looks at him seriously from across the table and asks, “Was it the drugs that mattered more? Or her?”

“Her – and what she wanted,” Athos admits. “Which was to live the society lifestyle, among other things. I wanted that for her more than I wanted anything for myself.”

D’Artagnan frowns for a moment before saying, “I don’t know what that’s like.”

Athos doesn’t think he’s ever meant anything so much when he replies, “Make sure you keep it that way.”

Date night has been going strong for about six weeks when Athos leaves the office early (which for him is any time before seven), stepping into his outer office and closing the door behind him. Constance is at her desk with Samara from sales – he thinks – standing next to her, and based on how close their heads are together and the way they fall silent as he enters, he assumes it’s not work they’re talking about.

“Enjoy date night,” Constance calls out, and then immediately winces as Samara looks at Athos, too polite to ask but obviously curious; and it’s only then it occurs to Athos that Constance and Bonacieux are still the only ones who know, and that she must be worried she’s just committed a massive faux pas.

But for all the idiosyncrasies of Athos’ marriage to d’Artagnan, it was never actually intended to be a _secret_ ; and so Athos just smiles politely and replies, “Thank you. I still need to talk to you about coordinating the factory inspections, but that will have to be tomorrow. I’m sure I run the risk of my husband divorcing me already if I’m any later.”

Constance grins, immediately realising what he’s doing, as beside her, Samara’s eyes widen. “Say hi from me,” she replies, and gives him a cheery little wave.

“Will do,” Athos replies, nodding at Samara as he leaves, content in the knowledge that the rumour mill will do its work without any further effort from him.

When he gets home d’Artagnan’s making seafood risotto, which Athos can’t help thinking would have tasted amazing with a chilled pinot bianco, though he’d still rather have it with a sparkling water and d’Artagnan for company; and they stay at the table well into the evening as Athos tells him about mentioning him in front of Samara and d’Artagnan finds it suitably amusing, and Athos doesn’t know if it’s the events of the afternoon or d’Artagnan’s reaction to them but Athos finds himself consciously noticing for what seems like the first time just how handsome d’Artagnan is when his eyes sparkle with amusement and he grins like that, swift and ready, and _what if this were real?_

_Ridiculous._

He knows these… impulses of his for what they are. It isn’t the first time; and though there are certain things he might almost be willing to admit to himself he misses, sometimes even craves, that doesn’t mean they have a place in his life any longer. They’re as much pure self-indulgence as the drink was, and he knows the craving isn’t worth the cost.

He and d’Artagnan get on well, nothing more, and even that's more than he could have expected from what is ultimately a business arrangement; and the thought that d’Artagnan might just feel obliged in other respects too, if Athos let himself get ideas, is almost enough to put him off his risotto.

“What’s up?” d’Artagnan asks, as if on cue, squinting at him suspiciously from across the table. “You made a face.”

“Nothing important,” Athos replies automatically. “I’m just remembering something I have to do.”

No, he’s going to put this down to a moment of madness, finish his risotto, have a lovely evening with his housemate and hopefully friend ( _and husband_ , the treacherous part of his mind reminds him), and forget he ever thought such a thing.


	4. Chapter 4

Of course, once you've thought the unthinkable, it can’t be undone; and once a dangerous idea has lodged in your mind it normally refuses to be forgotten, at least not by any of the methods Athos still allows himself.

The thought that this _could_ be real – in another world, another lifetime – starts as a slight feeling of wistfulness whenever Athos looks at d’Artagnan. It’s similar to the way he’s felt for years when he looks at Aramis and Porthos together: like being in mourning, perhaps, for the idea of himself as lover and as beloved, the low whine of the part of his heart that refuses to listen to reason.

At first he thinks that’s all it is; but gradually he starts to notice that something fundamental has shifted inside him, and changed the way he looks at d’Artagnan. It’s a new kind of awareness, as though his d’Artagnan-senses have sharpened, and Athos is beginning to notice things he never used to: whether d’Artagnan’s hair is up or down; the way the tendons flex in his forearms when he has his sleeves rolled up; the way one eyebrow is always ready to raise with every shift in his expression. He’s attuned to d’Artagnan’s presence and even his mood like a barometer, responding to every fluctuation.

When he takes a visiting client to an Italian restaurant he’s never tried before and during the starter is already thinking of how much d’Artagnan would like it here, Athos decides that this has gone far enough now, and he’s just going to have to get over it.

The question of how, exactly, he might go about doing that remains unanswered.

D’Artagnan doesn’t appear to notice anything has changed, at least. Athos doesn’t need his pity, any more than he has pity to spare for himself; his new… _feelings_ regarding d’Artagnan are nothing more than idle fancy, and the less mind he gives them, the sooner they will pass.

He succeeds in thinking little of it for the next few days, helped by the fact that he barely sees d’Artagnan at all. They get together again for brunch on Saturday morning, when d’Artagnan suddenly says between mouthfuls of bacon, “You said when you met that you wanted me to accompany you to some business events.”

In all the excitement, Athos had managed to forget that part of their agreement entirely.

“Oh, yes, of course.” He hesitates. “If you’re sure you’re interested?”

D’Artagnan raises an eyebrow. “Well, why don’t you tell me exactly what you had in mind, and then I can decide?”

“Okay. Well, there are dinners, periodically.” Athos pushes down the guilt as he remembers thinking d’Artagnan would like that Italian restaurant the other week, but without any intention of doing anything about it. “If a client or a business associate visits, I try and take them out for dinner. Sometimes they bring partners along, in which case we’re a lot less likely to talk shop. You’d be welcome to accompany me.”

“Free food? Count me in,” d’Artagnan replies – then pauses, resting his cutlery against the plate. “To be honest, I was wondering if the reason you never mentioned this again after I signed the contract was that you had second thoughts about appearing in public with a husband.”

D’Artagnan’s trying to disguise the bite to his tone, but he’s not quite good enough at it – and Athos is briefly horrified before he realises that d’Artagnan’s probably drawn a reasonable conclusion in the circumstances, and then feels abruptly even worse for having given him cause to think that in the first place.

“I won’t be anyone’s dirty secret.”

“ _No_. That’s not it.” Athos puts his own cutlery down, holding his hands out as if grasping for the best way to evidence just how unfounded d’Artagnan’s fears are. “I’ve mentioned you at work. People do know. It’s just that – we’re in a unique situation, and if I’m honest, I don’t know exactly what I’m doing. I didn’t want you to feel obligated.”

By the nature of their contract, d’Artagnan _is_ somewhat obligated, but Athos wants to think about that as little as possible.

“Athos, for God’s sake.” D’Artagnan’s clearly exasperated, but at least he’s smiling. “I promise you that I am very good at not feeling obligated to do things I don’t want to do. So just _ask_ me, will you? Generally speaking, I’m happy to help you entertain clients if it means I get to go to a nice restaurant.”

“Alright.” D’Artagnan’s smiles are bordering on the infectious, Athos decides as his own lips curve unbidden in response. “I’ll talk to Constance and see what’s coming up. And – I’m sorry, for letting you think the worst.”

“No, it’s okay. No harm done.”

D’Artagnan reaches for the carton and pours himself more juice, and for a moment Athos just watches the way his long fingers encircle the glass, and tries not to think of being touched.

“I’ve never dated a man,” Athos finds himself saying. It may just be the effect of his new feelings, but there’s something about d’Artagnan’s persistent good cheer that seems to invite confidences, even from him. “I mean, I don’t think that was why I didn’t say anything. Not consciously, at least. And I know we’re not actually dating. But.”

He doesn’t know _where_ he’s going with this, and clamps his mouth firmly shut before it can get any worse; but d’Artagnan just smiles again, and replies, “But we’re still figuring it out – and the good news is, we can do that together.”

“Together,” Athos echoes, cautiously mirroring d’Artagnan’s smile.

That’s all that matters, after all.

 

* * *

 

Athos starts the working week with the intention of honouring d’Artagnan’s request the first chance he gets; but of course as soon as he gets sat down at his desk and opens his inbox it’s superseded by matters of actual business importance, and he forgets it entirely until Constance knocks on his half-open door, saying, “Visitor for you,” as she pushes it fully open to reveal d’Artagnan, his hair in a _bun_ and wearing a black leather jacket and white T-shirt combination that Athos thinks should probably be illegal.

He grins, holding up a white paper bag. “Hey. I thought you might be working hard, so I brought lunch. Not home-made this time, I’m afraid, but I hope you like pastrami.” He’s already pulling up a chair.

“Of course. This is very kind of you, thank you.” D’Artagnan reaches inside the bag, pulling out two paper-wrapped rolls and passing one of them to Athos, as Athos tries to think of a halfway polite way to ask _why_ , exactly.

He settles on, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Honestly? I was bored.” D’Artagnan gives him a wry smile. “Work’s pretty slow at the moment – I’m talking to a few potential clients but they’ve not come through yet – and I don’t think any of my friends would want to hang out on Monday lunchtime. I don’t mind if you haven’t got long, it’s something to break up the day at least.” He gestures towards the now-closed door. “Besides, Constance told me you eat at your desk too often, the least I can do is help you do it in style.”

“Is that right,” Athos replies, but he can’t help smiling a little.

There’s been a lot of that, since he m-

Since he’s _known_ d’Artagnan.

They chat a little while eating their sandwiches (which are delicious) and then Athos offers d’Artagnan a coffee in return; and it’s been almost half an hour when d’Artagnan drains his cup and says, “Right, I’d better leave you to it.” He glances behind him, looking through the open blinds, and adds, “If I’d known Constance has the same trouble taking a proper break, I’d have brought her something too.”

“I’ll make her go for lunch in a bit, don’t worry,” Athos replies, walking d’Artagnan to the door. “I’ll ask her about upcoming dinner engagements first though, I’ve been meaning to do that.”

“Thanks.” Athos opens the door – and d’Artagnan leans in, resting one hand on Athos’ upper arm as he kisses him swiftly on the cheek.

“Have a good afternoon, _husband_ ,” he says playfully, already walking away as Athos’ brain starts to register what just happened, giving Constance a wave as he disappears around the corner in the direction of the lift.

Athos isn’t nearly ridiculous enough to press his fingers to his cheek where d’Artagnan’s lips touched it, but the fact that he even thinks of it is embarrassing enough in itself.

He’s all too aware of the fact that Constance has seen everything, from the kiss itself to the way he just stood and watched d’Artagnan walk away as if dazed by it; so he gives himself a mental shake before turning to her and saying briskly, “I promised I’d bring d’Artagnan along to a client dinner soon. Do you have time to take a quick look through my diary before you go for lunch?”

“Yes, of course,” Constance replies, gesturing him over as she pulls up Athos’ calendar on her screen. She filters by client engagements; but instead of scrolling through the list as he expects, her hand stills on the mouse.

“Constance?”

She looks up, hesitating for a moment before asking, “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

“How do you mean?”

Constance was there when he told Samara, Athos reminds himself, surely she can’t think he’s ashamed of d’Artagnan _too._

But what she says is, “You’re not comfortable with him.

“Physically, I mean. He just kissed you on the cheek and you looked absolutely terrified.” Constance raises her eyebrows expectantly at him, her _listen to me_ face. “If you want anyone to believe in your relationship, you need to be able to relax around him.”

Though the belligerent part of Athos wants to argue, he can’t help recognising the truth of what she’s saying. While he wouldn’t go so far as to claim he actually _understands_ d’Artagnan or what he wants, what is clear is that d’Artagnan’s the one who’s been reaching out, gently teasing and sincerely sharing, working to turn them from strangers into friends – when all Athos has been doing is reacting, and mostly with bafflement.

What’s also clear is that he owes d’Artagnan more; and even if he doesn’t understand _why_ , he still needs to work out how.

“What do I do?”

Constance shrugs, and smiles. “I’m afraid you’ll have to ask him that.”

 

* * *

 

Athos owes d’Artagnan more, and that’s why as soon as he’s home and they’re sat down with a nice non-alcoholic drink in front of them, he relays his earlier conversation with Constance, leaving nothing out. He’s expecting d’Artagnan to smile, perhaps make an affectionate joke at his expense – part of his continuing attempts to break him in gently – but instead he just nods, as unaffected as if Athos has told him they’re out of bin bags, and says, “So we need a test run.”

“A what?”

“A test run,” d’Artagnan repeats. “We need to work out how we’re going to behave as a couple, in public, but in a controlled environment. With people who already know us and can help us get the hang of it.”

Athos raises an eyebrow. “So… we act like a couple and they judge our performance?”

“Basically, yeah. That way when we have dinner with one of your clients we’re already prepared, and we both know how we’re gonna act. So I suggest we ask Constance, Aramis and Porthos to help us out.”

“I’m not asking Aramis for advice,” Athos objects automatically, not because Aramis’ relationship advice is _bad_ exactly – in fact it’s normally particularly astute – but because he imagines him being particularly smug about it. Athos has managed to keep Aramis’ nose out of his love life successfully for almost half a decade and he’s certainly not going to let it in now.

(Not that this is his _actual_ love life, he adds hastily, but the principle’s the same.)

“Then I will,” d’Artagnan insists. “I can’t ask Lucie, her father’s ill and she’s had to go home, and none of my other friends would take this seriously. Plus, they know you better than anyone. It makes sense.”

“True,” Athos concedes. “I suppose we need the help.”

D’Artagnan nods. “One of the things Aramis told me before is that you don’t date.”

“No, I don’t.”

One upside to Aramis being categorically unable to mind his own business is the fact that Athos hasn’t had to explain this to d’Artagnan himself. Not that he’s sure he could put his reasons into words. D’Artagnan will probably have learned more from Aramis’ speculations – not that Athos wants to hear them – than he would from Athos himself, and Athos prays he won’t ask any questions.

D’Artagnan doesn’t. Instead, he puts his drink down on the coffee table and rests his hand on Athos’ knee, the palm face-up.

Athos isn’t quite rude enough to say _What are you doing?_ , but he thinks his facial expression is probably saying it for him.

“Lesson one,” d’Artagnan says, giving Athos the closed-lipped smile he’s starting to recognise as meaning d’Artagnan’s being careful.

Well. Perhaps there’s no time like the present.

Athos lays his hand on top of d’Artagnan’s without a word, and keeps it there.

 

* * *

 

The only time they can get Aramis, Porthos and Constance together that week is for Sunday brunch, which Athos decides as he peels and cubes sweet potatoes has actually worked out very well, as it means there’s hardly any time between waking up and d’Artagnan commandeering him to help with the food prep to sit around thinking that this was actually a terrible idea, that Constance is a colleague and has never been inside his house in all the years they’ve known each other, and he’s probably breached some unwritten employer-employee code by inviting her.

Still. They need help (he needs help, playing the happy husband), and so he’s just going to have to grit his teeth and get on with it. If it’s even that bad – which it won’t be, for God’s sake, and he may feel weird about calling Constance a friend but he can at least acknowledge that they’re all people who mean a lot to him.

D’Artagnan leans over to reach for the olive oil, steadying himself with a hand on Athos’ waist. In the last few days he’s become noticeably more touchy-feely – nothing prolonged, but definitely inserting himself into Athos’ personal space – and Athos has just about managed to stop tensing up every time.

He owes it to d’Artagnan to try, at least. To do as much for him as he can, when d’Artagnan has already done so much for him.

He’s still not touching him back, although it’s… tempting.

 _Because_ it’s tempting; and the last thing he needs is to blur the firm line he’s drawn for himself, separating his relationship with d’Artagnan from anything that might be construed as _real_.

It’s nothing more than a convenient fiction, for both of them, and he forgets that at the cost of his own sanity.

The doorbell rings; and, “Athos, could you get that?”, d’Artagnan asks, resting a hand on Athos’ bare forearms where it’s braced against the counter. D’Artagnan’s fingers are cool and a little damp still, freshly-washed, and Athos isn’t sure he’s ever been aware of anything more acutely in his life.

He nods tightly, and pulls away from d’Artagnan’s touch.

It’s Constance at the door, looking suitably relaxed in a floral blouse, with her hair down and sunglasses perched on top of her head. Athos kisses her on the cheek in greeting, because they’re not in the office now, and immediately wonders if it’s too much – but she doesn’t seem to mind, just smiling and letting him show her inside.

She’s sat down at the kitchen table and he’s just making her a coffee when the doorbell rings again, signalling the arrival of Porthos and Aramis, both of whom look to Athos’ suspicious eyes a mite _too_ pleased to be here. The next few minutes pass in a flurry of introductions, Athos going backwards and forwards making various drinks and trying not to get too much in d’Artagnan’s way; and he’s just sat down with a coffee of his own when d’Artagnan puts the food in the oven and takes the seat next to his, pressing a kiss to Athos’ temple just before sitting down.

 _Oh_. They’ve started already, then.

And all of their guests are looking right at him, in varying combinations of awkwardness and sympathy.

“I didn’t realise we’d started,” Athos mutters defensively, resisting the twin urges to fold his arms and to glare at everyone until they all get up and leave. Which they probably wouldn’t, anyway.

“Athos.” Aramis looks as if he’s trying exceedingly hard not to laugh. “Would you like my advice?”

“No, not really,” Athos replies.

He can feel d’Artagnan glare at him.

Aramis, of course, ignores him. “Don’t think of it as a performance – because quite frankly, you’re a terrible actor, and that’s what’s making you so awkward. The easiest way to make it look natural is to _make_ it natural. Get used to showing a bit of affection – and don’t look at me like that, I’m not asking you to stick your tongue down his throat.”

D’Artagnan makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a giggle; and in an attempt to avoid Aramis’ all-too-knowing eyes Athos finds himself looking at Constance – who looks as though she’s enjoying herself far too much, he should have known it would be a terrible idea to introduce her to his friends.

Aramis’ advice is the same as Constance’s was, and based on his behaviour, d’Artagnan seems to agree – and Athos is rapidly starting to feel cornered.

None of them know how he feels, the desires he’s fighting. None of them understand what they’re asking of him – and when Athos looks at Porthos, his friend just raises his eyebrows and shrugs minutely, as if to say, _Can’t hurt, can it?_

Athos truly doesn’t know the answer to that.

He looks back at d’Artagnan – looks at his hand where it’s resting on the table, broad and brown and _strong_ , unable to help the way his skin prickles at the idea of having it somewhere on his body (he’s managed to keep his longings vague and unspecific at least, though he doesn’t know how long that will last) – and decides, clearly and deliberately, _fuck it_.

They all want this for him. _He_ wants it for himself, and though he knows he’s always been a fool for desire he’s still just as greedy as the next person, with just as little self-preservation; and so he reaches out to give d’Artagnan’s hand a quick squeeze, unable to stop himself rubbing his thumb back and forth along the webbing between thumb and finger, allowing himself to pretend for a moment that he can have this, that it’s truly his.

“There you go!” He realises Aramis is positively beaming at him. “That’s exactly what you want. Simple yet a bit lingering. It says ‘I’m being appropriate to the situation, but I also can’t keep my hands off him’.”

Athos smiles through gritted teeth, unable to help thinking, _If only you knew how much effort I’ve put into doing exactly that._

As they wait for the food, Athos becomes a diligent student of casual intimacy. He watches Aramis and Porthos like a hawk, observing the way they interact and mirroring it with d’Artagnan, committing every detail to memory in order to use himself later. Though he’s known them for years, he’s realising now that he’s never really _seen_ them – Porthos tucking a bit of Aramis’ hair behind his ear even though it keeps falling back over his eyes; looking at each other periodically as if to reassure the other that they’re still here; the way Aramis’ fingers stroke over Porthos’ knuckles, never-stilling.

And Athos knows full well that the reason he’s never seen any of this is that he’s never wanted to. He’s always turned away, redirected his attention any time they got a bit too couple-y in front of him, because even though it’s not as bad as if they were drinking, he’s still not made of stone.

And this… whatever the fuck it is he’s doing with d’Artagnan is probably dangerous but it feels so _good_ , the euphoria of a long-borne craving finally indulged. Athos feels giddy with every little casual touch, because the part of him that has insisted on yearning all these years is the same part of him that doesn’t understand the difference between a real relationship and an arrangement when they both mean there’s someone beside you at last. Someone to smile and maybe even laugh with, to take your hand and warm it in theirs, to look at you as if they truly mean it.

He’s fucked. He’s so, _so_ fucked, and nobody else even has a clue; and he can’t fight what he wants in any case, because even if d’Artagnan didn’t want to go to dinner with his clients, Athos knows it’s not like he’d be able to hide him away forever. Sooner or later they’d have to appear in public as a couple, and Athos wonders what it says about him, that to have his hard-earned control wrested from him is actually the sweetest thing he can imagine.

Once they’ve all eaten, Athos volunteers to do the washing up and refuses to take no for an answer, suggesting d’Artagnan take the others out into the garden, where the sun is shining brightly.

Porthos hangs back, saying, “I’ll help,” as he starts to collect up all the empty plates without waiting for Athos to agree; and once they’re alone he brings everything over to the dishwasher, next to where Athos is starting to fill the oven tray with hot soapy water, and asks, “How’s it all going with him, then?”

Athos is very grateful for Porthos, he always has been. He knows he’s speaking for both himself and Aramis, and that as much as they might be enjoying this, they still want to be sure that he’s okay.

“It’s good,” Athos says truthfully, looking into the tray as he fills it to the brim. He’s used too much washing up liquid, and a greasy layer of bubbles are forming on the top. “I think we’re becoming friends.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Porthos doesn’t say anything else, just bends down to start stacking the dishwasher as Athos reaches for the frying pan and starts to fill that too – and he knows exactly what Porthos is doing, but that doesn’t make it any less effective.

This is how it always goes; he’ll have to talk to Porthos sooner or later, so he might as well bow to the inevitable.

“We did have some teething problems. I didn’t want to impose, and he interpreted that as not wanting to spend time with him.” He gives Porthos a significant look. “But somebody told him I like macarons, and we talked about it, and since then it’s been smooth sailing.”

“He called Aramis to find out how to handle you,” Porthos fills in. “And _do_ you? Like spending time with him?”

“I really do,” Athos admits quietly. “He’s incredibly genuine. There’s no artifice with him, it’s refreshing.”

“Good.” Porthos claps an unexpected hand on Athos’ shoulder. “If you’re still determined not to date, then I’m glad you’ve got him to keep you company at least. We both are. It’s definitely better than you being lonely.”

“I never said I was lonely,” Athos protests.

Porthos’ look is distinctly unimpressed. “You didn’t have to.”

Athos knows that when Porthos looks at him like that, there’s really no point arguing.

“Well, there’s no question of me dating. Didn’t you hear, I’m a married man,” he quips instead.

In truth, he doesn’t know if he could manage to show an interest in anyone other than d’Artagnan right now, even if he wanted to.

Porthos laughs heartily as he stacks the last of the cutlery in the dishwasher, Athos putting in a tablet and turning it on. “Come on,” he says, “let’s get out there before they come looking for us.”

Outside the sun is fierce, and Athos quickly surmises that Constance, Aramis and d’Artagnan have become fast friends in his and Porthos’ absence. Aramis gives him an approving look when he kisses the crown of d’Artagnan’s head before sitting down beside him and letting d’Artagnan put a hand on his knee, and it seems Athos has performed well enough that the rest of the visit passes without the two of them drawing any more attention.

Constance is the first to make her excuses after another round of cold drinks, and Aramis and Porthos follow shortly after. Athos sees them out, coming back out to the garden to find d’Artagnan leaning as far back in his chair as it will allow, his face tilted up to the sky. He’s got sunglasses on so Athos can’t tell for sure, but he thinks d’Artagnan’s eyes are closed.

He looks gorgeous. Happy and relaxed and in Athos’ home, and Athos wishes he could just stand and look forever.

Instead he sits back down and says, “I vote we do nothing for an hour or two and then eat the leftovers from brunch. I mean,” he adds hurriedly, “if you don’t have any plans.”

D’Artagnan looks over at him. “Nope, no plans. And I think you can start assuming that if I haven’t said I’m going anywhere then I’m around and happy to hang out.”

“Got it,” Athos replies, unable to stop his gaze lingering for just a few more moments. D’Artagnan’s hair is fine and silky-looking and falls to his shoulders, and Athos remembers watching Porthos tuck Aramis’ hair behind his ear and wishes he could do the same with the lock of d’Artagnan’s hair that fell across his face when he turned his head, and is now resting against his nose.

Now that he knows how it feels to surrender, he’s not sure he can bear not to.

Hardly daring to breathe, he reaches out and does just that.

If D’Artagnan wasn’t looking at him before, he certainly is now, amusement flickering at the corners of his mouth. “Got to get that practice in, yeah?”

“Practice makes perfect,” Athos agrees, mentally begging d’Artagnan not to call him out on the fact that what he’s just said is utterly banal.

“I once read a book that claimed you need to practice something for ten thousand hours if you want to master it,” d’Artagnan replies – and then goes still all over in a way that looks to Athos a little like the first stirrings of panic as he realises the implications of what he’s just said. Athos wishes he could see his eyes to be sure, but he can’t and he can feel things rapidly getting weird, and so he says the first reassuring thing that comes into his head:

“Then I suppose we must have a natural gift.”

D’Artagnan doesn’t reply, but Athos can tell he’s just looking at him, as he’s looking at d’Artagnan; and as he feels the atmosphere between them change yet again, charge with something he doesn’t dare name, Athos is gripped with the strangest notion: that if he were to kiss d’Artagnan right now, d’Artagnan would probably kiss him back.

_And then what?_

When Athos told Porthos that things were good, it was truer than he realised. With d’Artagnan, he’s found a greater companionship than he had any right to hope for from what started out strictly as a business arrangement, and he determines here and now that he’ll do everything he can to nurture it, to appreciate it and enjoy it while it lasts, however long that may be.

Without another word he shifts his chair over a little until he can press up against d’Artagnan’s side, dropping his head to d’Artagnan’s shoulder and closing his eyes, to enjoy the warmth of the sun on his face.


	5. Chapter 5

After that afternoon, they barely stop ‘practising’. D’Artagnan kisses Athos’ cheek in greeting, Athos breathing him in as deep as he dares every time; he agrees to watch endless hours of TV just so that they can sit together on the sofa with his arm around d’Artagnan’s shoulders, the lengths of their bodies pressed together.

They don’t talk about it, and Athos is fairly sure he would be a little terrified by how natural it all feels if he ever actually let himself consider it while d’Artagnan’s beside him – which he never does, gripped by the irrational fear that if he thinks too loudly he’ll somehow give himself away.

Instead he waits till he’s alone, lying in a bed that now seems far too big for just one person and wishing he could know what _d’Artagnan’s_ thinking, what he’s telling himself. Perhaps he truly does think what they’re doing is practice, that Athos needs it to be halfway comfortable having d’Artagnan in his space; perhaps he’s an Aramis-grade hedonist and just does what feels good, without endlessly picking over what it might mean.

Perhaps he’s lying awake just like Athos is, imagining throwing off his duvet, getting up and crossing the hall, before opening Athos’ bedroom door and letting himself inside.

Athos’ mind races: he’ll be in nothing but boxers, his body long and lean and dark, and he’ll close the door softly behind him with a click before walking over to the bed, showing that he means to stay. He’ll draw back the covers and get underneath without a word, pulling Athos close without a moment’s breath, kissing his half-formed protests away as he rolls on top of him, their bodies slotting together head to foot –

 _Christ,_ Athos half-whispers, half-groans as he wrenches his mind back from the brink, blood pulsing in his cock and almost shaking with want, throat parched and gasping for air.

He’s so _hungry_ , not just for affection but for this too, and he doesn’t know that he can bear to go without.

_No._

No, he knows better: he knows that merely wanting something isn’t enough to justify having it, he’s been learning that for eighteen months now. Even if d’Artagnan was willing – which is one hell of an assumption in itself – that’s no guarantee they could make it work. It would still be far too much to risk.

Better by far to settle for d’Artagnan’s friendship, his companionship, for as long as he’s willing to give it, than to gamble something so precious.

For a few moments, Athos feels pleased. Proud, righteous, even – until he realises he’s still persistently hard, unable to banish the image of d’Artagnan in his bed, which when he screws his eyes shut only seems to grow stronger.

It feels like a violation, to be thinking of d’Artagnan this way – but at the same time, the slide into full-blown fantasising seems inevitable. Athos decides he should probably be impressed that he’s held out for so long already.

Ultimately, isn’t he entitled to think whatever thoughts he pleases, within the privacy of his own mind? Isn’t it his actions that truly matter?

He abruptly shoves his hand down his boxers and jerks himself fast and needy to the thought of d’Artagnan on top of him, the heat and the weight of him, the warm brown of his eyes and the hot touch of his hand, and comes in minutes.

Once he’s cleaned up and put on a fresh pair of boxers, he steps into his en suite to take a drink from the tap and pauses in front of the mirror, looking at his own reflection in the moonlight and expecting to feel terrible; but though he waits, any fresh self-loathing is curiously absent.

He was wrong to compare these feelings to his alcoholism; it’s an insult to d’Artagnan, for a start. The fact of the matter is that drinking has never truly done him good, whereas simply being around d’Artagnan makes Athos happier than he could have ever thought would be possible again.

And what are a few inappropriate fantasies, he asks himself as he stretches out under the covers, feeling warm and sated and surprisingly like he could sleep, when what really matters is not desire at all but what they mean to each other? Their steadily-blooming friendship, that may one day even become a kind of love.

No, Athos would trade any number of orgasms to take d’Artagnan _properly_ in his arms and keep him there, for as long as he wishes.

It’s that thought that lulls him gently into a dreamless sleep.

 

* * *

 

Athos wakes the next morning shortly before his alarm, white morning light already filtering in through the curtains, and feels almost well-rested and at peace with the world for approximately ten seconds before he remembers exactly what he did the night before.

Then he throws himself out of bed as if he’s been scalded, any lingering sleepiness overridden by the fear that d’Artagnan will break the habit of a lifetime and get up before he’s left for work, and Athos will have to look him in the eye knowing what he did.

He’s out of the house in under fifteen minutes, not even putting the coffee on in his haste.

Work, of course, is the perfect tonic: he has no time to waste on guilt when there’s so much to be done. While his job’s more than full-time at best, he knows from experience that there’s no limit to how much work he can create for himself, depending on how much he chooses to care about; certainly enough to keep him at his desk late into the evening, just the way he wants it.

He texts d’Artagnan just before five to say he’s not going to make it for dinner, and walks out with Constance just after six, stopping off briefly to pick up a carton of chicken lo mein before going straight back to the office, where he immerses himself in the German sales figures and an accompanying report exploring the possibility of switching distribution networks until he’s yawning every thirty seconds and the words are just refusing to go in any longer.

As he drags his sluggish body home, head starting to pound from the strain, he fully intends to make his excuses and go straight to bed, where sleep will no doubt elude him; but when he closes the front door behind himself and d’Artagnan walks into the hallway to meet him, Athos looks into his worried eyes and is just so _tired_ suddenly, too tired even to be ashamed.

He’s tired of all of it. Of lying, of fighting, of _wanting,_ and it must show on his face because d’Artagnan’s mouth falls a little open right before he steps forward and sweeps him into a proper hug; and Athos turns his head to press his cheek against d’Artagnan’s shoulder and lets himself be held, closing his eyes and for a few moments thinking of nothing at all.

“Are you alright?” d’Artagnan asks – far too soon, and Athos reluctantly pulls away.

“Sometimes I just want to pack it all in and run away to somewhere Mediterranean.” He makes himself smile.

“Mm. Somewhere with a deserted strip of sandy beach, I hope.” D’Artagnan reaches for his collar – and Athos blinks, not understanding what’s happening until d’Artagnan’s hands start to undo the knot of his tie.

This is new; but if Athos has learned anything in the past months it’s that whether or not something’s awkward between them normally comes down to whether or not they let it be, and so he decides that this is just another thing they do for each other.

(Their situation is unique, after all, and thus the unwritten rules of friendship need not necessarily apply – or even the unwritten rules of friendship between men who like men, not that Athos would know what those are. All he knows is that his and d’Artagnan’s relationship is not a sexual one; and whatever thoughts he may have in the privacy of his own mind, he will always honour that rule.)

D’Artagnan pulls the tie from Athos’ neck in one swift movement, undoing the stiff button at his throat before winding the fabric round his palm. “Can I do anything?”

“I think I’m just going to take two paracetamol and go to bed,” Athos replies, firmly ignoring the part of him which wants to say _just hold me_ , or something equally pathetic. “I doubt I’m good for much else.”

“Would you like a massage?”

Athos stares, all the breath leaving his lungs in a sudden rush.

“For your head, I mean,” d’Artagnan clarifies hurriedly. “My elder sister’s prone to headaches. It’s always helped her.”

Now it seems d’Artagnan thinks _he’s_ overstepped, and Athos has to suppress a smile at how ridiculous they are.

“That sounds nice. Thank you.”

One glass of water and two paracetamol later, Athos ends up sitting on the floor between d’Artagnan’s legs, bracing his back against the sofa and closing his eyes in wordless bliss as d’Artagnan’s long, strong fingers do their work, pushing through his hair and massaging his scalp, and decides he can’t keep freaking out like this.

He can’t afford to work himself into a spiral of shame every time, it’s no good for either of them; and if he can’t stop himself fantasising, then he’ll just have to learn to compartmentalise.

 

* * *

 

As the days pass, Athos is surprised by just how easy it turns out to be. He takes to wanking in the shower so there’s no chance of him being overheard, feeling less and less guilty each time; instead of longing to press d’Artagnan into the sofa and kiss him until neither of them have breath left in their bodies, he consciously stores up those thoughts for later, and decides it will have to do.

Meanwhile, he arranges to take d’Artagnan to dinner with one of his suppliers. Athos has always liked Paul: he’s the kind of good-natured person who can instantly put aside days of complicated and occasionally fractious contract negotiations the moment they leave the office, and become someone Athos genuinely enjoys spending time with. He’s never once mentioned anything work-related during a meal, and Athos thinks he will be the perfect choice for seeing how d’Artagnan does.

Not that he’s _assessing_ him, exactly.

Although actually? Perhaps he is. Being Athos’ husband is one thing; being Athos’ Husband quite another.

But he needn’t have worried: the evening is a great success. D’Artagnan wears the suit he was married in, and Athos can’t do anything about the inappropriate warmth in his chest every time their eyes meet; he takes them to that Italian place and d’Artagnan is in raptures over the menu, to the point where Athos keeps finding himself catching Paul’s eye and smiling to hear him. Conversation flows freely, with d’Artagnan and Paul bonding over an interest in photography Athos hadn’t known they shared, and Athos mostly listens and tries to concentrate on actually learning something rather than on the way d’Artagnan’s eyes sparkle when he’s passionate and his hands move a mile a minute, at one point nearly upsetting his own drink in his animation.

When d’Artagnan excuses himself while they’re waiting for coffee and desert, Paul waits until he’s out of earshot before cocking his head at Athos and asking, “So how did that happen, then?”

“Entirely unexpectedly,” Athos replies – which is more or less true. “I was at least as surprised as you are.”

Paul, like far too many people Athos knows professionally, remembers Anne; though unlike with most of them, that fact alone isn’t enough for Athos to wish him out of his life entirely.

In another life, he might even have called him a friend.

“Oh, I was surprised,” Paul agrees, “right up until you came through that door together. And then it all made perfect sense.”

Athos is saved from having to reply by d’Artagnan’s return; but Paul’s words stay with him late into the night, where he lies sprawled out in his solitary bed and feels his heart pound as he wonders what exactly it was that gave him away.

Is he so different, then – and if even _Paul_ can see it, what about his friends? What do Aramis and Porthos see, or Constance?

What about d’Artagnan?

Even a week ago, Athos would have let this haunt him. He’d have hidden from d’Artagnan even while knowing he needed him; would have let it drive him to behaviour as self-destructive as he can get short of actually drinking again.

Instead, he does none of those things. In fact, he allows himself, for possibly the first time he remembers, a little mercy.

There is a limit, to one person’s control.

He really should have learned long ago that the flip side of letting people in is – well, letting them in. That being close to someone means letting them see the things you’d rather they didn’t as well as the things you gladly lay before them; that the worst of you comes hand in hand with the best.

If d’Artagnan has seen right through him this whole time, then he has at least been kind enough not to mention it. He hasn’t shied away from Athos’ company, or shrunk from putting an arm around him of an evening as though this were somehow real.

No. No, he _has_ to stop thinking about it like that. So much about their relationship _is_ real, and that’s not negated because it isn’t romantic. In a few short months they’ve built so much, and Athos can no longer imagine not wanting d’Artagnan in his life, in whatever way’s permitted him.

They’ve deliberately woven the fabric of their lives together, and even if Athos can’t help thinking that d’Artagnan would have liked pretty much anyone – it’s Athos he _does_ like, Athos he _has_ , Athos who has the privilege of d’Artagnan’s companionship.

The privilege, perhaps, of having d’Artagnan see right through him and still not minding or being weird about it, perhaps even happily offering him what d’Artagnan doesn’t mind giving, a little human touch to ease his aching heart.

And if d’Artagnan doesn’t mention it, then Athos definitely won’t. It would be embarrassing for all concerned; and if they already understand each other, then certainly nothing needs to be said.

 

* * *

 

It’s quickly becoming the season for supply chain and distribution renegotiations, which means that Athos’ days are filling with endless meetings thrashing out contract minutiae with various providers, and his evenings either entertaining his visitors or in an unappealing hotel in an equally unappealing city being entertained by them. All of it necessary, of course, but hardly one of Athos’ favourite parts of his job role, and it’s never long before it starts to get to him.

Of course, now he has d’Artagnan, who can take a little of the heat for him at least in the evenings; and bolstered by their success with Paul, Athos promptly invites him to another such dinner the following week. This time it’s with Maria, a woman who has always been as pleasant to Athos as he to her, but they’ve still never been able to find any common ground; she got on very well with his father, and Athos has always wondered, perhaps a little unfairly, if she finds him a disappointment by comparison.

But whatever it is that Athos is lacking, d’Artagnan apparently possesses in abundance: he charms Maria almost instantly, drawing her into a very interesting discussion about colony collapse disorder – of all things – and awakening an arch humour in her that Athos has never seen before, which actually reminds him very much of Ninon.

As they walk home later that evening, hand in hand, Athos asks, “How did you do it? I’ve never seen her so effusive.”

D’Artagnan smiles, shrugging a little. “Everyone’s got something they like to talk about. Sometimes it’s personal, sometimes it’s a cause. You just have to dig a little. My elder sister, Anna, is the same, people always say she’s quiet right up until they hit on something she’s really passionate about. Whereas Sophie never stops talking.”

“I’d like to meet them,” Athos finds himself saying.

“I’d like that too,” d’Artagnan agrees, squeezing Athos’ fingers. “Though I’ll have to figure out how to explain the fact that I secretly got married.”

Athos has to resist the immediate urge to apologise for making things awkward – it was d’Artagnan’s choice, after all, and it’s not like he’d have it any other way.

“I’ve got something a bit different coming up,” he says instead. “They’ve asked me to speak at the rotary club dinner. Just a bit about myself and the business, and the charity we’re supporting this year.”

Almost as soon as the words are out of his mouth, he thinks better of it – it’s not going to be a nice dinner and intelligent conversation, it’s going to be considerably worse food and an evening of people like him droning on about corporate social responsibility while everyone else applauds politely. “Don’t worry though, if it doesn’t sound interesting.”

“Rubbish. I’d love to,” d’Artagnan insists, the smile he turns on Athos like sunlight. “Especially if it’ll help to have a familiar face in the audience.”

“Thank you.” Athos actually doesn’t mind public speaking, provided he’s had adequate preparation – and a chance to tone down his first impulses, which are always to be far too blunt – but there are other reasons he’d much rather have d’Artagnan there. “It – would, actually. There’s always a lot of drinking at these things, it would be nice not to be the only one who’s dry.”

“No, of course.” They’ve reached the house and walk up the garden path together, d’Artagnan already reaching in his pocket for his key. He fishes it out, and turns to look at Athos, his face creasing in sympathy. “I wish I could help somehow.”

“Trust me,” Athos tells him, “you already do.”

 

* * *

 

Three days before the rotary club dinner, Athos takes d’Artagnan to get fitted for a dinner jacket in his lunch hour. He can’t help thinking of outsourcing the fitting of his wedding suit to Constance, and just how much things have changed; and it doesn’t help that d’Artagnan in evening dress looks, well, _stunning_. Even down to the surprised pride on his face as he looks at himself in the mirror, as if he’s looking at someone he didn’t quite expect himself to ever be.

It’s a feeling Athos knows intimately.

D’Artagnan takes a lot more interest in everything related to the dinner than Athos was expecting, asking for a demonstration of his speech one evening – which Athos dutifully performs for him in the kitchen, feeling faintly silly all the while, and unable to help thinking that if this is what passes for entertainment then d’Artagnan probably needs to spend more time out of the house.

It’s a dry speech, Athos is under no illusions to the contrary – but when d’Artagnan applauds and tells him it was very polished he realises it’s his performance that was being assessed, and not the content; and then when d’Artagnan asks with a perfectly straight face if he’s considered adding a couple of jokes, Athos has enough context to recognise that he’s being trolled.

And what’s more, he doesn’t even mind.

On the evening itself, they arrive on time and launch straight into doing the rounds, Athos greeting all the people he hasn’t seen since the last time he actually bothered attending one of these, and introducing d’Artagnan – when something happens that he wasn’t expecting.

It’s a blink of surprise followed by a forced smile, as if the person he’s talking to has accidentally swallowed something nasty and is trying to disguise it; and it has to happen three times before Athos realises what it must mean, and has to swallow down his own immediate indignation.

It’s 2015, for God’s sake. He hadn’t realised anyone would still be so… _small-minded._

A glance at d’Artagnan shows he’s more than aware of their less than pleasant reception: though he’s still smiling, _technically,_ there’s a tightness in his expression that makes Athos feel guilty and furious all at once.

He decides to cut short the introductions, nodding at the people nearest to them as he leads d’Artagnan over to their table and pulls out his chair for him with a flourish, because if he’s going to do this then he’s damn well going to do it properly.

There’s a bottle of wine on the table, of course; and though part of him wants to pour himself a glass because part of him always will, he’s surprised to find that most of him doesn’t. That instead of wanting to cope with his anger and his outrage by drinking, he wants to push back.

He’s not going to make a scene, of course. But nor is he going to let these bigots think they can bring him down.

He sits down in the chair next to d’Artagnan’s, careful not to crease his penguin suit, and then leans over and kisses him full on the mouth.

“Fuck them.” He moves his lips to d’Artagnan’s ear, smiling as if he’s whispering words of love, which in a way perhaps he is. “And we’re going to show them. Deal?”

“Deal,” d’Artagnan agrees, his smile slightly sad and very much defiant and infinitely kissable, though Athos knows he can’t afford to get carried away.

He notices d’Artagnan’s bow tie is a little crooked, and reaches out before he can think better of it; of course, once his hands are in the air he has to do something with them, and this is surely better than the alternative, which would involve cupping d’Artagnan’s jaw shortly before kissing him senseless, kissing him until Athos can no longer deny the fact that he feels far more for him than he ever meant to.

Athos wishes d’Artagnan wouldn’t look at him like that. Wouldn’t look at his _fingers_ like that as he straightens his bow tie, his eyes the colour of a fine brandy – and Athos would choose him over that brandy any day, though they’re equally unattainable.

“It’s times like these I want a drink,” he says – though it’s not strictly true, because he _always_ wants a drink, and he doubts that will ever change.

D’Artagnan’s face falls. “Athos…”

“Sorry. It’s okay,” he says, pressing his hand briefly over d’Artagnan’s knee, because that’s safe, that’s something he can allow himself; and d’Artagnan covers it with his own and holds it there as the compère steps up to the mic and their table fills up, the lights dimming around them.

Athos is fourth up, and though he knows it’s impolite he barely listens to the first three speeches. They’re all just white noise against the feeling of d’Artagnan’s hand in his under the table, the way he _looks_ in that dinner jacket, though Athos is trying very hard not to sneak too many glances at him for fear he’ll become even more obvious than he probably is.

For fear that he’ll make d’Artagnan uncomfortable if he pushes too far, that he’ll lose all of this.

It’s time to step up all too quickly, and he gets through the three minutes without incident – he’s given enough speeches like these in the last eighteen months that he knows how, at least, even though he doesn’t expect he’ll ever be especially charming when he gets behind a podium, and he mainly focuses on speaking clearly and not too fast as he introduces himself and the company then gives a brief overview of this year’s charitable work, sitting back down again to polite applause and a kiss on his cheek.

Then he and d’Artagnan eat salmon and drink sparkling water and make polite conversation with the other occupants of their table, none of whom visibly turn up their noses at their relationship, at least; and Athos thinks that yes, he could be content with just this.

Still, he’s surprised when as they walk home, arm in arm, d’Artagnan gives him a sidelong glance and says, “Thank you. I had a really good time.”

“It was a thoroughly boring evening, not to speak of our own reception,” Athos objects immediately, “how do you call that a good time?”

“The food was good,” d’Artagnan argues. “And there will always be homophobes.” He gives Athos a searching look. “That’s not the first time anyone’s looked at me like that. Though it was for you, wasn’t it?”

“I’m not upset.”

Though Athos supposes he isn’t exactly used to being caught off-guard.

“It’s okay if you are, you know. It’s not exactly anyone’s idea of a good time.” D’Artagnan squeezes where his hand’s resting in the crook of Athos’ arm. “It’s funny. You’re supposed to be the one with all the life experience, but sometimes I feel like I’m older.”

There’s something odd about the way he says it that leaves Athos wondering if to d’Artagnan, that’s actually a good thing.

“I wouldn’t wish my life experience on anyone,” he remarks, before he can think better of it.

There are a few awkward seconds of silence before d’Artagnan sighs a little and says, “I’m sorry. I’ve just been doing a lot of thinking, the past few months, about my own life. Where I’m going. What I want.”

“How do you mean?” Athos asks, trying not to immediately decide that that sounds incredibly ominous.

“All of it, really. There’s my work, for a start.” D’Artagnan runs his other hand through his hair, his steps slowing a little. “I did what I wanted, against my parents’ advice. I thought it would be easy, if I really wanted it. Instead I was living with four other people in a house with a mouldy bathroom, living off beans and rice and barely making my share of the rent.”

“And you don’t have to worry about that any more,” Athos points out automatically.

“No, I know, but. I don’t like the hustle either. It’s a rare client who values my skills, and even rarer that they want to actually pay for them. I’m starting to wonder if my parents were right. If I should just get a quote, _real_ job.”

“Well, if that’s what you want, of course I’ll support you.”

“Thank you. But I don’t _know_ what I want, which is the problem.” D’Artagnan looks over searchingly at him. “I suppose you never had to choose like that, did you? When there was the family business waiting for you the whole time?”

“I still tried,” Athos replies, eyes fixed determinedly on the road ahead. “And every decision I ever made for myself was a catastrophe. If my grandfather hadn’t given me a second chance – which I had in no way earned, mind you – I’d probably not be standing here.”

D’Artagnan scoffs – and it’s so unexpected that Athos forgets not to look at him, sees how thoroughly unimpressed he looks, though his words are gentle: “While I didn’t know your grandfather, I’m sure his actions came from love. Not because he thought you had to earn them.”

It’s strange, how it sometimes takes another person to see right to the heart of even the most personal of matters.

Or perhaps Athos has tried so hard to reject, to forget everything that happened to him – even who he was – that he just doesn’t see how he carries it still with him, the claws of the past ever-grappling, ever-buried in his flesh.

He manages a soft, “Thank you,” and they keep walking in silence.

They’re turning into their street when d’Artagnan speaks again, his voice strangely hesitant in the night: “I think I want to be in love.”

Now the moment has come, it’s only the awareness of how shocked he _doesn’t_ feel that makes Athos realise he’s always been expecting this, even if he’s been hoping it wouldn’t nearly be so soon.

In a voice that doesn’t seem his own, he replies, “I understand. It makes sense that you’d want to meet someone. Although – I have liked having you here.”

D’Artagnan pulls on Athos’ arm, stopping him short as he steps right in front of him, his smile a complicated thing that Athos can’t read at all. “Who says I want to go anywhere?”

Standing here together in the twilight, d’Artagnan’s hands gripping _both_ his arms now – it would be easy for Athos to mistake this for something more than it is.

_D’Artagnan doesn’t know what he wants. He just said so himself._

Athos fully expects he’ll dodge, just say that they should go inside, put the kettle on; or even that d’Artagnan doesn’t have to decide anything now, that Athos will support him whatever he chooses, hoping for at least a temporary reprieve.

Instead he says, “What do you know about my past?”

D’Artagnan blinks, his brow furrowing. “I Googled you, right at the start. I know your brother died. And that you were married. Porthos and Aramis said you never talk about any of it.”

“I tried to have her killed. My wife.” He sinks down onto the neighbours’ garden wall, his voice flat. “She was responsible for my brother’s death. There were a lot of drugs in his system – it was ruled as misadventure, but I knew in my gut it was her. He knew some bad people, who’d do anything for the right price. I called one of them.”

When he finally dares looks up, d’Artagnan is just watching him steadily, no hint of shock or accusation in his face.

Athos keeps talking.

“I was off my face myself, on all manner of things. It was drugs, in those days, as much as alcohol. Anyway, it didn’t work. The man called back and asked for more money. Fortunately, by that time I was sober. The police never caught up with us, but when she applied for a restraining order against me I didn’t oppose it.”

It’s strange, telling someone. It doesn’t bring it all back, the way he feared. It still feels as though it happened to someone else, though Athos supposes copious amounts of mind-altering substances will do that to you.

He doesn’t know what d’Artagnan will do, or say. He almost doesn’t care, feels as numb, as detached as he did when he was still using.

He almost laughs when d’Artagnan just takes his face in one hand and says, “Let’s get inside. Put the kettle on.”

Athos lets d’Artagnan sit him down at the kitchen table and start making tea in silence, refusing to think about the fact that he’s probably just changed things between them forever. There will be time enough for that in the still of the night when he’s supposed to be sleeping, time enough to remember that it’s our actions that matter, and that the responsibility for them never leaves us.

He’s so lost in thought that he almost jumps when d’Artagnan sits down beside him, placing two mugs of tea on the table.

When he reaches for Athos’ hand, his fingers are warm.

“I was thinking about what I’d want someone to say to me, if I’d done what you did.” His eyes are bright with that certainty of youth, that Athos thinks he remembers once possessing. “You’re a good man, Athos. And you can fuck up, even as spectacularly as you did, and have that still be true. And still be worthy of redemption.” His thumb is rubbing rhythmically over Athos’ knuckles, and it’s all a little too much suddenly.

Athos pulls his hand away, reaching for his tea as he gets out, “Thank you,” through a throat that’s suspiciously tight. “I think I’m just going to go to bed.”

“Will you be okay? Do you need –”

D’Artagnan’s face is open and trusting – too trusting – and the rest of his sentence remains hanging in the air, unsaid; and Athos makes himself smile as he replies, “I’m okay. Have a good night,” and walks out of the room and up the stairs before he can do any more damage.

The hardest thing about being sober, for Athos, has always been that when he can’t drink, he has no choice but to feel; and as he lies awake for hours almost ready to cry with how much he wants to cross the hallway and find out exactly what it was that d’Artagnan almost offered him, the only thing that stops him is the knowledge of just how much he has to lose.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been much longer in coming than I'd hoped. Thank you all for your patience!

Had this been any other marriage of convenience, Athos thinks he could have been fairly certain that the revelations about his past would swiftly be followed by an equally convenient divorce.

It’s downright weird to realise that from d’Artagnan, he expects nothing of the sort.

Every instinct Athos has is telling him that his husband’s a shit liar – and not particularly given to self-preservation. He’s more of a ‘throw himself at something repeatedly until he sticks’ type, if Athos is being particularly uncharitable.

Not that everything between them adds up, oh no – Athos still has questions.

But he’s not so sure he’s ready to face the answers just yet; so he will hold his breath, hold his course, and just have to believe in the fact that d’Artagnan apparently still believes in him.

It’s been almost a week now, and things are normal – or more accurately, d’Artagnan’s normal with him. He still shows Athos endless videos of people falling off things on YouTube and tries in vain to interest him in FIFA, still asks him how his day was and appears to be interested in the answer; and Athos smiles politely and tries to come up with amusing anecdotes, and tries even harder to forget what he said that night, and to pretend he doesn’t know more or less why he said it.

When he gets an email saying his Spanish distributor has broken his ankle and won’t be able to travel to their meeting next week, Athos writes a reply proposing they postpone – but he doesn’t know if it’s guilt or altruism that has him hovering with his cursor over the Send button as he remembers d’Artagnan waxing lyrical about Mediterranean beaches, imagines making him gasp, then smile –

He deletes everything he’s written and replies instead saying that he’ll come to them.

By the end of the day, everything’s set in motion. He arranges to drop in on the Spanish sales office on the second day if he has time left over, and asks the office manager who’s covering for Constance to look into flights and accommodation for two; then he leaves the office on the dot of five thirty and lets himself into the house just before six, following the smell of frying mushrooms through to the kitchen, where he leans against the kitchen counter beside d’Artagnan and asks without preamble, “How would you like to spend a few days in Spain next week?”

D’Artagnan’s eyes widen. “Seriously?”

“Yes. Well. It’s a business trip, for me at least.” Athos reaches out to fiddle with an egg timer in the shape of a chilli pepper, accepting it with good grace when d’Artagnan swats his hand away. “You’d mostly have to amuse yourself.”

“Well, I think I can manage that. Assuming there’s a beach.”

“I’m afraid I’m going to Albacete. It’s inland. But I can make sure there’s a pool,” Athos promises, with absolutely no idea of how easy it will actually be to make that work.

“That would be amazing.” D’Artagnan is already fishing his phone out of his back pocket, managing to type with one hand and stir the contents of the frying pan with the other. “So according to Google, Albacete is a ‘concrete-and-wind-farm dust bowl’, that’s not great. Though it does have a cathedral.” He looks over at Athos and grins almost shyly, the surprised pleasure in his face making something in Athos’ chest clench in answer. “Thank you. So much.”

“Don’t mention it. Really,” Athos replies, thoroughly meaning it – he’d wanted d’Artagnan to be happy, but other people’s gratitude has always made him uncomfortable enough that if there was any way he could have brought d’Artagnan on holiday without him actually noticing, he’d have done it.

“Alright.” D’Artagnan’s expression turns positively mischievous. “Provided, of course, that you join me in this pool you were talking about.”

Athos blinks. “I’m not sure I even own any swimming trunks.”

“So I’ll get you some.” When Athos opens his mouth to object, d’Artagnan immediately reaches over and gently takes hold of his jaw, pushing it closed again. “No arguments. Consider it a present.”

Athos doesn’t know exactly which of his so-called ‘friends’ told d’Artagnan just how thoroughly his upbringing drilled into him that he must never turn down a gift, and just how long d’Artagnan’s been planning to use it against him; but as hard as he rolls his eyes, he still can’t help smiling a little too.

 

* * *

 

Thanks to Athos’ office manager’s commendable efficiency everything is arranged with time to spare, and Monday evening finds Athos and d’Artagnan thirty thousand feet above sea level, d’Artagnan dividing his time between flicking through the in-flight magazine and gazing out of the window as if he’s never seen clouds before, Athos finds himself thinking, rather ungenerously. Sleep’s been elusive in the past few days, though he can’t pinpoint what exactly has been niggling at him late into the grey hours, other than the usual – and acutely conscious of his resulting moodiness, he’s mostly been trying to speak as little as possible.

They land with no more than a little turbulence, though border control is appropriately hellish – nobody abroad knows how to queue, of course – and when they get into the back of the private car that’s been sent to pick them up, the dark and quiet and the air con are a blessed relief. (Athos always thinks he doesn’t care about money until he remembers what it can buy him.)

D’Artagnan’s fingers brush against his where they rest against the leather – a question, a request – and though Athos doesn’t really want to see another living soul until he’s slept he still makes himself rub the pads of his fingers over d’Artagnan’s knuckles, just a few brushes back and forth, hoping to at least convey _it really isn’t you._

He sort of wants a drink, but he’d rather sleep, which he supposes is something. A silent room with a thick pair of curtains, crisp clean sheets and hopefully a decent mattress – and for the price of finding a whole villa with its own pool at less than a week’s notice he fully expects to have a _comfortable_ night’s sleep, if not a _good_ one.

They arrive to find the villa in darkness, which never bodes well; but Athos manages to retrieve the key from the outside safe and unlock the front door easily enough, stepping cautiously into the house and fumbling for the light switch, d’Artagnan following with their bags. His first impressions don’t fill him with confidence – it’s all earth-toned stucco and dark, heavy wood with some frankly hideous sofas to boot – but they’re only here for three days and _God_ he needs to just go to bed, he isn’t suitable for anything right now.

“Let’s see what’s where,” d’Artagnan is already saying, with a level of enthusiasm that only fills Athos with a weary mix of envy and resentment, as he flings open doors and calls out behind him, “Bathroom – kitchen – bedroom, this one’s not made up – another bedroom – bunk beds – oh.”

“What?” Athos asks – mostly out of politeness, before he notices the way d’Artagnan is hovering in the far doorway, a particular posture that’s familiar to him from employees who are about to tell him something they know he won’t want to hear.

“There’s only one bed made up.”

Athos frowns, but d’Artagnan is already clarifying: “There are two doubles, but one of them is just a mattress. No sheets or anything. And the third room’s got bunk beds in it, so…”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Athos groans, realising what’s happened. “It’s my fault. Constance is on holiday, so I asked my office manager to make the arrangements. I didn’t think.” _To tell her that we’re not a real couple_ , he doesn’t say. “Look, it’s my fault, so I’ll take the sofa. I’m sure there are blankets here somewhere.”

“Oh for God’s sake, no you bloody won’t,” d’Artagnan insists, picking up Athos’ bag and carrying it into the bedroom before he can protest, Athos trailing reluctantly after. “You’re here to work, and do you think I haven’t noticed you not sleeping? I’ll sleep wherever you want me to, but you’re having this bed and you’re getting in it right now, end of story.”

Athos knows when he’s beaten. He knows when he’s too utterly worn out to be anything less than grateful that d’Artagnan’s taking charge, and so he sinks down on the edge of the bed, and replies, “I’m not going to make you sleep on the sofa,” letting d’Artagnan take that as he will.

“Well, that’s that then,” d’Artagnan says, and the next thing Athos hears is his footsteps, retreating; and there’s just a moment for Athos to realise he’s _disappointed_ when he looks up to see d’Artagnan coming back in with his own bag, dumping it unceremoniously on the other side of the bed and unzipping it, before rooting around inside.

Made awkward by the sudden mixture of want and new worry lurching in his chest, Athos grabs his wash bag and heads straight for the bathroom without another word.

He feels better already for locking the door behind him, and better still as he washes and brushes his teeth, and does a mental run-through of exactly how he’ll behave normally in this situation – though he isn’t sure he has _any_ real frame of reference, never having shared a bed with anyone he wasn’t intimate with, in all his adult life.

But he does know going to bed alone, and that will have to do. He’ll just get under the covers, turn the lights out, and fall asleep as if there was nobody lying beside him at all, close enough to touch.

And it’s almost that easy. While d’Artagnan’s in the bathroom Athos hangs his suit and shirts in the wardrobe, after deciding that he can get away without any emergency ironing, then sets the alarm and strips down to T-shirt and boxers before sitting gingerly down on the edge of the mattress, bouncing consideringly. It’s… not amazing, he decides, but not terrible either, though there’s nothing he can do about it now anyway; and so he gets under the unfamiliar covers and lies on his side, leaving the lamp switched on.

It’s simultaneously far too long and far too soon before d’Artagnan comes back. The sounds of him stripping are painfully loud in the silence of the house, and Athos can’t help feeling uncomfortably voyeuristic just from listening to the rustling of fabric, the unmistakeable noise of a zip being unzipped; and he’s still holding his breath when the mattress dips behind him, and the duvet’s tugged away from his back.

“Good night,” d’Artagnan says; Athos murmurs a response, reaching out to click off the lamp.

He closes his eyes, and wills himself to sleep; but he never truly believes it might work, and as he lies there in the dark his exhaustion slowly but steadily loses out to the awareness of d’Artagnan besides him, the warmth and presence of him, the regular hitch of his quiet breathing. No, Athos never really stood a chance – and though he knows he should really get up and walk around a bit until he feels settled again, maybe have a herbal tea, the last thing he wants is to disturb d’Artagnan.

He rolls onto his back instead, and immediately cringes when the bed creaks.

“Athos.”

D’Artagnan’s whispering; and so it seems appropriate for him to whisper back, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I wasn’t asleep.” A pause, and then, “You can’t sleep, can you?”

Athos sighs. “How did you know?”

“Call it a hunch.” Athos senses d’Artagnan turning beside him, and then a hand settles on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. “Is there anything I can do?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I’ve – not shared a bed, since my wife.”

It’s surprising, the way that talking to d’Artagnan – even about _her_ – makes him feel. Better. Lighter, even.

He wonders if, if he bit the bullet and just told d’Artagnan now how he feels about him, he’d feel lighter still. If d’Artagnan would smile and pull him close, maybe tell him it was okay, that he already knew, and that he didn’t mind. That they were still friends.

What actually happens is that d’Artagnan squeezes Athos’ shoulder again, and Athos can almost hear him hesitate for a few moments before he asks, “I know you said you didn’t date, but… _no-one?_ ”

“No.” Athos tries to think of a way to say _I’m just not cut out for romantic relationships_ that d’Artagnan wouldn’t feel obligated to argue with; but it’s apparently not his night, and so after casting around uselessly he just ends up adding, “It didn’t seem… wise. Besides which, I was too busy drinking heavily to concern myself with much else.”

He can’t help tensing, dreading what seems to him the inevitable question about the fact that he’s nearly two years sober and still making no overtures in that direction; but instead d’Artagnan shifts over and rests his head on Athos’ shoulder, throwing an arm across his waist beneath the covers.

“Just try and relax,” he murmurs, stroking Athos’ side with the flat of his hand – over his T-shirt, at least. “You’ll never sleep if you’re so tightly wound. It’ll be a lot easier if we stop pretending we’re not in bed together, for a start.”

 _That_ hits a little too close to home; and so Athos forces out something resembling a chuckle for the sake of appearances, before closing his eyes and resting a hand against d’Artagnan’s head, stroking his hair a little as he holds him in place.

And d’Artagnan’s right: it _does_ work. Holding him in his arms, slowly loosening the tight grip of his own composure until his mind is near-silent, and he feels at last like he might just be able to sleep tonight.

It’s still only because he can tell d’Artagnan’s still awake, breathing near-silently as his fingers shift back and forth over Athos’ bare arm, that makes Athos admit, “I’m afraid I can’t sleep like this.”

“Me neither,” d’Artagnan whispers back, shifting his head forward and pressing a kiss to the hollow of Athos’ throat – but as Athos freezes in shock d’Artagnan’s already turning away from him, flopping onto his front. “Night.”

“Night,” Athos manages to echo, not sure he hasn’t just imagined it; though when d’Artagnan’s asleep not two minutes later, in the end he isn’t far behind.

Ironically enough, for Athos the better nights always seem to be followed by the worse mornings, and the next day is no exception: he throws himself out of bed the moment the alarm goes, ignoring the pained groan from the other side of the bed, d’Artagnan mumbling something that sounds a lot like _fuck off_ , to discover there’s no food and no coffee in the house, and he’s due to be picked up before there’s time to do anything about either.

He falls asleep in the back seat of the car for the first time he can remember, and though there’s coffee and pastries in the meeting he has to start talking before the caffeine has had a chance to do its work; but fortunately preparation – as ever – covers a multitude of sins, and in the end they manage to work through just over two thirds of the outstanding distribution issues by the end of the first day.

The Spanish eat late, and so José, Pablo and Pilar agree to meet them in town in a few hours for dinner, and Athos gets himself driven back to the villa – to find it absolutely sweltering after a day in an air-conditioned office. The double doors are thrown wide open, and d’Artagnan’s lying on a sun lounger on the pool, in nothing but swimming trunks. He’s wearing aviators and Athos assumes his eyes are closed beneath them, and knows he only has a moment to drink in the sight of that lean, muscled body, all golden-brown skin that’s glistening in the late afternoon sun.

As he stares, d’Artagnan slowly turns his head, expression blossoming into a smile as he sees Athos hovering in the doorway; and the only thing Athos can think is that all he wants in life is for d’Artagnan never to stop looking at him like that.

“Hey. I left your trunks on the bed.”

Athos can’t help his moment of hesitation – but if he doesn’t get in the pool he’ll only end up taking a shower, and that’ll look rather silly after refusing to swim.

Besides, it’s _damn_ hot here. Getting in the pool is really the only sensible thing to do.

So he smiles and says, “Thank you,” before going into the bedroom and stripping everything off, and pulling on the trunks – which fit perfectly, of course – walking back out to the poolside, and not looking at d’Artagnan as he lowers himself into the water.

It’s shockingly cold at first, but Athos remembers the words of his school swimming teacher, and pushes on until he’s submerged up to his neck; and within half a minute his body’s acclimatised and he lets out a sigh of relief, pushing gently off from the bottom and floating along on his back, just beneath the surface. Though he can’t see d’Artagnan’s eyes through his sunglasses, the amusement on his husband’s face very much suggests he’s being watched.

“I think I’ll have to keep these on until you’ve got some sun,” d’Artagnan comments – and Athos lifts one hand just far enough out of the water to give him the finger, though all it actually achieves is to make d’Artagnan laugh.

After a brief dip it’s time for them to get ready for dinner, manoeuvring around each other between bedroom and bathroom as if they’re practised at it. They’re close enough to walk into town to the restaurant, where the company’s good and the food even better, and even Athos’ ever-present longing for all the open bottles of wine he sees on the other tables is muted not only his knowledge of the inevitable consequences should he have a drink, but by just how much he’s enjoying the evening without it.

That night is a great deal better than the last: Athos is exhausted still but this time in a good way, tired out by the long day and good company, and he doesn’t even really hesitate before reaching out to the man beside him and curling a hand around his bare shoulder until d’Artagnan shifts in close once more, pressed up against Athos’ side as though he belongs there.

And at some point probably very soon, Athos is going to have to stop pretending he hasn’t noticed what’s going on here. He’ll have to stop pretending he can fool even himself for very much longer, with the man who was only ever supposed to be a convenience warm and _right_ against him, gladly taking everything Athos didn’t even realise he was offering.

But for now he just lets himself have this, and finds a strange kind of comfort in the thought that in two days’ time they’ll be back home. Back to their separate beds in their separate rooms, back to what’s familiar and _safe_ , with only the memory of this to sustain him.

 

* * *

 

The next day is better still: Athos rises early once more to find that d’Artagnan’s bought coffee and breakfast, manages to have the new distribution contract finalised by lunchtime and follows it up with a quick visit to his Spanish sales office. Then it’s home for another quick dip in the pool (and a quick ogle of d’Artagnan as he climbs out of the pool, his skin darkening by the day, wet trunks clinging to the curves of his arse in a manner that briefly knocks Athos for six), and back out for dinner with Sofía, his head of Spanish sales (though he pays far more attention than he ought to just how good d’Artagnan looks in white, sleeves rolled up and the first two buttons of his shirt left open.)

Athos is feeling better in himself too, calmer and better-rested despite the fact that he’s been working just as hard as he does at home – but the downside is that this time when d’Artagnan climbs into bed beside him and snuggles up to him as he has for the past two nights, Athos _notices._

More specifically, his _body_ notices.

At least he’s lying on his back and d’Artagnan’s against his side, he thinks, and they’re not slotted together like – _no, stop that for God’s sake, that is not helping_ ; and while at least his anxiety about the whole situation is keeping him from being so hard it _hurts_ , Athos’ body still knows exactly what it wants – what it’s gone far too long without – and is making that known to him in no uncertain terms, making his face heat and his pulse pound in his cock until he’s seriously considering saying he can’t sleep and just throwing himself back in the pool until he _calms the fuck down_ –

– and that’s when the hand laying across Athos’ chest moves up to his collar, d’Artagnan’s fingers tracing along the bare hollow of his collarbone until Athos is gritting his teeth to hold back the frankly _mortifying_ noise he wants to make, and he panics and says the first thing that comes into his head –

“I don’t want to go home.”

And it works, after a fashion: d’Artagnan appears to interpret the tightness in his voice as sadness, his fingers stilling against Athos’ neck as he replies carefully, “Don’t want to give up the Mediterranean lifestyle?”

“No. Well, yes. But – even though I’ve been working, this almost feels like a holiday.” _Because you’re here,_ he can’t help thinking, though dismisses it as hopelessly soppy. “Now I wish we had longer.”

(It’s only knowing it’s impossible that has him wishing, of course; in practice he doesn’t even know if he’ll survive tonight.)

“So we’ll make the most of it. See the sights. Both of them,” d’Artagnan quips, and Athos obliges him with a huff of laughter. “But seriously. Perhaps it’s time you took some proper time off. I mean, when was your last real break?”

“Never? I took over as acting CEO when my grandfather fell ill, and before that, I drank. Holidays didn’t really enter into it.”

What he doesn’t say is that going on holiday was what he did with Anne. They took holidays chiefly to take drugs, on yachts that never left their harbours, with people Athos didn’t like when sober; and though it’s a far cry from anything he’d ever do again, that still doesn’t mean he knows what would take its place.

“Wow. Well, I think you’re well overdue for one,” d’Artagnan says, with feeling. “We should go somewhere. Wherever you want. Or not, even. Take a week off – do some reading, help me put up some bookshelves, whatever. Just do something other than working for a bit.”

“I’d like that,” Athos replies – meaning any of it really, as long as it has d’Artagnan in it.

“Good.” D’Artagnan pushes himself up on one elbow to peck Athos on the cheek. “I’ll let you sleep.”

“Night,” Athos replies as d’Artagnan turns away with a flop, sending the duvet rippling gently across Athos’ midsection; and he too rolls so he’s facing away, curling one arm beneath his pillow and ignoring what remains of his erection.

He spends a long time listening to d’Artagnan’s breathing as it evens out.

 

* * *

 

Afterwards, Athos will examine the events of the next morning from every possible angle, cataloguing every moment in an attempt to understand, to apportion blame, and will ultimately be unable to make any of his efforts stick.

After all, he doesn’t know, and never will, what d’Artagnan truly intended; if he’d planned this and if so, for how long, if all those months of steadily-growing closeness between them had actually been d’Artagnan steadily working him out, breaking him in – or if he just blinked his eyes slowly open to see Athos beside him, facing him, and there was something about the sight of a middle-aged man squinting in the morning light that answered a new call in him.

No, the facts – as Athos knows them – are thus:

He wakes to see d’Artagnan beside him, his face turned towards him and his eyes still closed. His lips are curving slightly upwards, his hair is thoroughly mussed against the pillow, and Athos is just realising he’s the most beautiful thing he has seen in years when d’Artagnan opens his own eyes, smiling even wider and murmuring, “Hey.”

And Athos is just opening his mouth to reply when d’Artagnan pushes himself up on one elbow and kisses him.

This time there can be no doubt, no rationalising, no misdirection. The kiss is soft and firm at once and abruptly short-circuits Athos’ brain, leaving him with not a thought in his head but the feeling of d’Artagnan’s lips on his, the tongue dipping into his mouth, the hand cradling his head and holding it in place.

Then that same hand drops to Athos’ arse, d’Artagnan abruptly pulling himself so close that his hardness presses into the hollow of Athos’ hip – and with d’Artagnan’s resulting ragged moan, Athos’ realisation of his own hardness as it slots between d’Artagnan’s thigh and groin and sends heat shooting up his spine, is enough to destroy any last vestiges of control.

“Off, take it off,” d’Artagnan’s muttering against his mouth as he tugs at the hem of Athos’ T-shirt with the other hand; and Athos obliges, nearly elbowing d’Artagnan in the face in his haste, trying to lift his hips up at the same time so d’Artagnan can pull his boxers down to mid-thigh – and when this time d’Artagnan presses his bare cock against Athos’ they groan together.

It’s imperfect. It’s fast and needy and a little too rough, and Athos pushes his face into d’Artagnan’s neck and holds him close as d’Artagnan’s hand does the best it can to work them both before Athos belatedly realises he should help, pushing his own hand between their bodies and ignoring the way his arm goes immediately numb. It’s like being trapped inside a furnace, he thinks dimly, the covers pushed down to mid-torso and sweating everywhere they touch, d’Artagnan’s hair in his eyes and his mouth and Athos’ body demanding more, _more_ –

D’Artagnan comes first, crying out too loud against Athos’ ear and pulsing into his hand, giving Athos the slickness he hadn’t realised he needed to follow long after, coming over d’Artagnan’s fist and his own stomach with a soundless punch of breath that feels almost like a laugh, or a sob.

As he lies there and stares into d’Artagnan’s eyes, the heave of his breathing slowly levelling out, Athos starts to realise he’s waiting for d’Artagnan to do or say something that will make all of this suddenly make sense; but what the man who is his husband actually does is reach behind him for a tissue, before kissing Athos’ wordless lips and saying only, “I’ll make a start on breakfast.” Then he rolls up and out of bed – naked – pulling his discarded boxers back on and padding from the room.

Left still sticky, sweaty and momentarily alone, Athos elects to shower, and waits for it to hit him.

He lets the water run just a shade cooler than he likes, and as he steps under the spray his hands start to roam his body; not to arouse, but rather with a strange detachment as he wonders what exactly it was that d’Artagnan saw in him – _desired_ in him.

He isn’t even sure how long he’s known, only that he can no longer pretend this is anything less than what it is.

Than d’Artagnan wanting him, at least on some level, thinking perhaps that if they start getting each other off too then Athos will be –

_What?_

No, Athos is no more than the man he’s always been, and he _doesn’t know how to do this._

He turns the water off, and just stands in the shower tray, not moving, until he starts to shiver.

He towels himself off and dresses before following the smell of coffee through to the kitchen, where d’Artagnan’s standing at the counter beside the fridge still in just his boxers, his back to Athos as he pulls slices of Serrano ham from a packet. He’s beautiful to behold, and Athos doesn’t think he’s ever felt so painfully aware of his own inadequacy.

He probably should have nipped all this in the bud before it even started, but at the same time he can’t imagine a world or a version of himself where that would have happened.

D’Artagnan turns, his expression hardening as he takes in Athos’, and all he says is, “What?”

“I don’t know,” Athos replies. It seems a neat summation. “I need some time, perhaps –”

“You need – I’ve given you _months!_ ”

And d’Artagnan is furious suddenly, his hands gripping the counter-top behind him as if it’s the only thing holding him back, lip curling as his frustration bubbles over – ugly, Athos thinks, for all that he’s so beautiful, and so _young._

“I should have known.” A bitter little laugh. “You never did take me seriously, did you? Even though I’ve seen the way you look at me, when you think I don’t notice. I suppose you couldn’t deal with feeling like you’d _bought_ me.”

And it’s _that_ which makes Athos see red, just as bright and hard and sudden as d’Artagnan himself – but worse, it makes him his mother’s son again, and he can feel the devastating way his expression shutters, hears his voice turn to ice as he replies, enunciating every word:

“ _Bought_ you? I don’t know what you expected of me, d’Artagnan, but this was only ever an _arrangement._ ”

And as he stands and faces him in the silence that follows, watches his words sink in, Athos finds he doesn’t even care that he’s hurt him.

“Fuck you,” d’Artagnan finally snarls, stalking from the room and slamming the door behind him.


	7. Chapter 7

Sat at the kitchen table, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles are turning white, Athos knows that what he said to d’Artagnan was unfair. Cruel, even, and plain untrue, and there’s no question that he will apologise for it.

Just not yet. Not while he’s still absolutely fucking livid at d’Artagnan’s implication that Athos even _considered_ being in any way underhand – coercive, even – when in fact for all the months they’ve been together, the possibility of d’Artagnan feeling in some way obligated towards him has never failed to turn his stomach.

And now they’ve come away together and d’Artagnan has shared his bed, pressed up against him in the dark and kissed him when his guard was down, touched him and then acted like it had never happened –

No, he really doesn’t feel like it’s d’Artagnan who’s been manipulated here.

He’s still trying to get himself under control when he hears the bedroom door open, d’Artagnan’s footsteps crossing the living room, and then the front door opening and closing.

 _Well then_ , he thinks, unable to help the way the voice in his head sneers – and _fuck_ , he was going to be better than this, wasn’t he? Better than his parents. And here he is the moment things don’t go his way, casting d’Artagnan in his mind as childish, as emotional and irrational, all because he’s never learned to wield words like weapons.

All because it hurts him when someone he… _cares about_ is viciously, needlessly cruel.

Athos puts his head in his hands as his anger falls abruptly away, and leaves him with nothing but shame.

_It was too good to be true, wasn’t it?_

He knew in his heart that everything would come crashing down – and it has, all because he was stupid enough to let himself _hope_. He can’t think of another word that fits: it’s the only way he can explain his own wilful blindness, his astounding naivety, all the months he’s pretended he doesn’t understand the way d’Artagnan looks at him or what it means, as if by refusing to acknowledge the situation they’ve got themselves into he becomes any less culpable.

And now he’s ruined everything, and he can’t even bring himself to feign surprise.

If he’d been smarter, stronger, _braver,_ he would have tackled this head-on, long before now. He would have sat d’Artagnan down and told him the truth: not to waste his time and his heart on someone who doesn’t know how to be in love. Who doesn’t realise how deeply he’s in until he starts to drown; who will drag d’Artagnan down with him because he can’t bear to let him go. Who lashes out because he can’t bear to be the only one hurting.

Isn’t that exactly what he’s done, all over again?

At least it’s over now. At least he’s only taken a year of d’Artagnan’s life, rather than half a decade; his heart may be a little bruised but he’s young and optimistic. He’ll recover.

And maybe this time, Athos will finally have learned his lesson.

He stays where he is, not moving until he hears d’Artagnan returning, maybe quarter of an hour later; and lifts his head and twists himself round in his chair, ready to face the music.

D’Artagnan is dressed, and has his wet swimming trunks and a towel slung over one arm. His eyes are red-rimmed.

“D’Artagnan –”

“Don’t,” he spits – he’s always worn his heart on his sleeve, and Athos can see all too well the smarting of his wounded pride, and running beneath it, the far deeper hurt. “Don’t speak to me.”

So Athos doesn’t. He turns back around in his chair and looks at a circular stain in the wood grain of the table as d’Artagnan throws open the doors to the pool and disappears through them; then gets up and retrieves his wallet and keys, rubs sun cream into his face and arms, puts his shoes on, and leaves the house.

If d’Artagnan doesn’t want him there, the least he can do is to honour that.

Athos goes to the cathedral in the end, for a lack of other ideas. It’s cool inside, and the frescoes are beautiful; even though he’s hardly religious there’s something about being inside a church that has always touched him, calmed and centred him. He’s still thoroughly ashamed of himself, of course, but looking up at the vaulted ceiling high above him, it seems just about bearable.

He’d like to imagine God as being someone like his grandfather. A man who didn’t suffer fools, but was there for him in his hour of need; who was blunt about just how far he’d fallen from grace but never stopped loving him all the same, who believed him when he said he wanted to change.

He drops a couple of euros in the collection box and lights a candle, thinking, _For him, and for everybody I’ve hurt._

He has lunch at a near-deserted café a few streets over, and then walks deeper down town until he discovers a narrow strip of parkland, where he sits down on a bench and looks up at the high-rise blocks of flats behind the few trees that surround him, wondering what it would be like if this were his life. He can’t remember the last time he went anywhere by himself quite like this, or did anything of note without d’Artagnan; he supposes that now he’ll have to relearn what it is to be alone.

Though he already knows that it isn’t being _alone_ that will hurt, but being without him.

He stays in that little park as long as he can before walking back to the villa, ignoring his aching feet, arriving half an hour before the car that’s booked to come and take them to the airport. He enters to find d’Artagnan sitting in the living room, playing with his phone, his packed bag already beside the front door; he ignores Athos completely, and Athos tells himself that he deserves it, and goes into the bedroom to do his own packing. Then he sits on the edge of the bed and stares at the same page on his e-reader, acutely aware of d’Artagnan sitting in the next room, hurting, and all because of him.

The minute they’re sat in the car d’Artagnan puts his earphones in, and barely takes them out until they arrive home, hours later. Athos only speaks to him when strictly necessary, telling himself that he’s honouring d’Artagnan’s wishes even while he suspects that he might just be being a coward; d’Artagnan doesn’t say a single word in reply the entire trip.

Athos hangs back and lets d’Artagnan enter the house first, grabbing his bag from the boot and ignoring Athos’ entirely, disappearing immediately upstairs; Athos shakes hands with the driver and follows him slowly in, dumping his own bag in the hallway and going into the kitchen, where he takes a sleeping pill with a glass of water before going straight to bed, his only saving grace being that he’s too exhausted from the day’s events to be capable of conscious thought any longer.

He sleeps through his alarm, waking at ten thirty the next morning with a spike of panic, and drags himself groggy and on an empty stomach to the office – where Constance takes one look at him and tells him in no uncertain terms to go back home right now and take the rest of the day off, otherwise she’s going to get François from IT to disable his email account until he does.

Athos doesn’t argue with Constance. He knows better, even with what’s awaiting him at home; and so he drags himself all the way back again with a sense of slowly-mounting dread, all too aware that he’s too wrung-out and his defences are too low to survive another scene without doing something embarrassing like breaking down, and letting d’Artagnan see just how pathetic he truly is.

But when he unlocks the front door and lets himself back inside – as quietly as he can – something in the atmosphere of the house has shifted; and Athos knows d’Artagnan’s left even before he registers that his jacket’s gone, and his favourite trainers; before he looks in the living room just in case, then the kitchen, finally walks half way up the stairs until he sees the door to d’Artagnan’s bedroom standing open.

Athos abruptly sinks down onto the stairs like a puppet with its strings cut, leaning his head against the bannister and hugging his knees, feeling suddenly cold, and very alone.

Perhaps it’s better this way. If d’Artagnan doesn’t want his apology then he shouldn’t be forced to accept it; Athos knows the pain he’s inflicted runs too deep to be patched up with mere words. The way he’ll feel for being unable to give it is no less than he deserves.

When his arse starts to protest he hauls himself up and pours himself a glass of sparkling water from the fridge, where he considers eating something but can’t quite bring himself to care. Instead he wanders through to the living room – where he’s stopped short by the sight of one of d’Artagnan’s ubiquitous hoodies draped over the back of the sofa, that he’s apparently forgotten in his haste.

After everything, it’s that which makes Athos’ eyes fill with tears.

He picks it up, meaning to take it upstairs and put it on d’Artagnan’s bed – but as soon as it’s in his hands he wants nothing more to bury his face in it and breathe in deep, to pretend for just a moment that d’Artagnan’s still with him.

Is he really that pathetic?

Apparently he is.

He steps around and sinks down onto the sofa, curling into a ball and not caring at all for the state of his suit or that his shoes are still on, and presses the fabric against his face, to block out the light.

 

* * *

 

The days pass by at a crawl; and Athos throws himself into his work, staying later and later at the office and only going home to sleep, or not sleep. He’s taking too many sleeping pills, he knows that, but at least he isn’t drinking, and caffeine and sugar keep him functioning well enough during the day to actually do his job, at least for now.

The worst thing about all of this is how he can’t stand to be at home any more, alone in his empty house. It’s like he’s forgotten everything he’s ever learned about self-sufficiency: he doesn’t know what he used to _do_ with himself during all those hours alone, when he just accepted the fact that he’d never share his life with anyone again. Now he tries to read, but can’t concentrate; doesn’t care enough for television, feels d’Artagnan’s absence like a pang all over until he ends up holed up in his bedroom because that at least was the one place d’Artagnan never came, curled in on himself under the duvet at eight in the evening and wishing the days away, until it all starts to matter a little less.

He will get through this, he knows that; he’s got through worse. He might even get through it without relapsing, though he longs for the oblivion of alcohol more and more with each passing hour.

He longs almost as much just for someone to _touch_ him, pathetic as it is – he’d grown so used to always having d’Artagnan beside him, to hold whenever he wanted, showing as much affection as he dared through touch at least, if not through words.

He almost calls Aramis and Porthos – once, twice, three times, but the thought of having to tell them what happened stays his hand, his shame outweighing his desperation, at least for now.

 _I’ll call them if I think I can’t stop myself drinking_ , he promises himself, getting up to open the window and then back into bed again, pulling the covers tighter around himself to keep out the new cold.

That’s when he realises that downstairs, his phone is ringing.

Of course, it cuts out as soon as he makes it downstairs and into the living room where he left it; but it starts up again within moments, which is how he knows before he even looks at the screen that it’s Aramis, who over the years has made hanging up just before Athos’ voicemail kicks in and ringing back immediately – sometimes five or six times – into an art form.

It was mere minutes ago that he wanted nothing more than to speak to one of them, and now that the opportunity presents itself, he wants nothing less; still, the feeling of social obligation wins out, and he answers before he can second-guess himself any further.

“Aramis.”

“D’Artagnan called me. We’re coming over.”

Athos half-suspects he’s felt so much in the past few days that the emotional centres of his brain have mostly burnt themselves out. He doesn’t feel the expected flush of shame to learn that they know, or even relief; instead he just finds himself wishing, with the resigned air of one who knows it will never come about, that Aramis could learn to say _hello_ once in a while.

Still he protests, for form’s sake if nothing else. “Look, I really don’t think –”

“Stop arguing. We’ll be there in five minutes,” Aramis tells him, and hangs up before he can get another word in.

It’s a deliberate tactic, of course, one that they’ve employed against him many times; and while he does object on principle he supposes that their actions are born out of love, that they steamroller over his half-formed objections to force their care upon him because they know he can’t quite bring himself to ask for it.

When the doorbell rings he feels suddenly nauseous, but of course he hasn’t eaten since lunch, that must be it.

He opens the door to the sight of their two worried faces; and it’s Porthos who’s quickest, stepping forward and taking Athos straight in his arms, squeezing him tightly enough to drive the breath from his lungs. “Athos. Why didn’t you call us?”

Athos thinks the question’s rhetorical; at any rate he doesn’t answer, just closes his eyes for a moment and savours the feeling of being held, an unseen weight around his shoulders lifting a little.

He gets the same treatment from Aramis, after which the two of them go into what Athos privately calls full mother-hen mode, leading him through to the kitchen and sitting him down at the kitchen table before bustling around as if they own the place, Porthos putting the kettle on and Aramis putting a plastic box in the microwave, the unmistakeable smell of Chinese food making Athos realise just how hungry he is.

A few minutes later Aramis presents him with freshly-microwaved special fried rice and a fork, and Porthos brings over three cups of tea, telling him, “Eat,” in a tone that brooks no argument.

“D’Artagnan told us you’d probably have forgotten to eat,” Aramis says gently, as they both pull up chairs beside him – and Athos’ head snaps up, adrenaline surging through him in equal parts fear and hope.

“You spoke to him.”

Aramis nods. “He called me this evening. Told me everything.”

Athos puts his head in his hands – it’s weak, he knows, but he’s so _tired –_ and Aramis’ hand comes to rest warm and sure in the centre of his back. “I don’t need to tell you what an idiot you’ve been, do I?”

 _No._ “Can I stop you?”

Aramis snorts. “Did you _really_ not know how he felt about you? Because we would have told you, if it hadn’t been so bloody obvious we thought even you must have realised.”

“I knew. I just – didn’t want to admit it to myself,” Athos confesses, running a hand through his hair before sitting up again and reaching for his fork, his stomach growling insistently.

“Why the hell not?” Porthos leans forward, clasping his hands in front of him. “And don’t try and tell us that you weren’t interested, I’m not buying that for a second.”

“No. But I wouldn’t be any good for him.” When Porthos just frowns at him, uncomprehending, Athos realises he needs to clarify: “There are reasons I don’t date. Why my marriage failed. I – get in too deeply. I –”

_Lose myself._

He takes a breath, and tries again. “I know d’Artagnan’s not Anne. But I’m –”

_But I’m still me._

“ _Athos._ ” Aramis sighs, reaching for his left hand and pressing it between both of his, and Athos can’t even bring himself to try and pull away. “Athos, Athos, Athos. Eat your damn food, while I tell you what an idiot you are. Because whatever you _were_ like back then – and I fully accept that we weren’t there, and we don’t know – I hardly associate ‘gets in too deeply’ with a man who spends literally _months_ pretending he hasn’t fallen for the young, attractive man he’s sharing his life with, who _clearly_ likes him back, because he’s scared of being a disappointment.”

As ever, when something hits too close to home, Athos pushes back: “The only reason he was in my life in the first place was because I paid him to be!”

“Didn’t pay him to fall in love with you, did you?” Porthos points out; and while Athos is still trying to find the words to protest he adds, “And what’s all this past tense I’m hearing?”

“He’s left,” Athos points out, only just stopping himself from adding _obviously._

“Athos. He hasn’t _left_ ,” Aramis replies, with the air of one who’s explaining something to a particularly stupid child. “He went off in a huff and he’s spent the last week waiting for you to ask him to come home, because he’s twenty-three and he’s also an idiot who doesn’t realise that clear communication is important in relationships.” His voice softens. “And he thought the reason you weren’t reaching out was that you didn’t take him seriously.”

Athos frowns. “He said something like that. When we argued. I didn’t –”

Porthos raises his eyebrows. “Young guy with an unstable career and no assets to speak of? Falls for someone who’s a CEO in his thirties and doesn’t want for a thing? Who’s clearly interested in him but never actually acts on it? What conclusion would you come to?”

“…I never looked at it like that,” Athos says eventually. “I don’t care what he _has_ , or what he _does._ ”

 _I just care about him_.

He almost can’t bring himself to hope; but he can see on Porthos’ and Aramis’ faces that they already do, and perhaps that's enough.

“We know,” Aramis soothes, rubbing the back of Athos' hand with his thumb. “But d’Artagnan needs telling. So how are you going to fix this?”

 

* * *

 

When Porthos and Aramis have finally left, after another round of hugs and repeated assurances from Athos that he really will be okay on his own, and no he isn’t going to drink, Athos sends d’Artagnan a message on WhatsApp:

_Can I see you?_

He passes out from sheer exhaustion before he gets a reply, but is woken up just after six the next morning by his phone vibrating right next to his head – uncharacteristically early for d’Artagnan, which immediately makes him worry.

The message is brief, just an _Okay. Come over today_ and an address the next town over, but it’s enough to make Athos smile for the first time all week.

He’s seen too much to believe in happily-ever-afters, of course; he knows it won’t all be smooth sailing. But what’s fundamentally shifted is the fact that now, for the first time, he’s determined to _try_. He’s prepared to face up to his own issues, to tackle them head-on at last instead of always running, always hiding, if it means a life with d’Artagnan beside him.

If it means he could be even halfway worthy of the man he’s fallen in love with.

Athos doesn’t do anything rash. Instead he makes himself sleep for a few more hours, waking up shortly after nine; then he has a shower and breakfast, and almost calls Constance to say he’ll be in late before remembering it’s Saturday. Instead, he holds his phone in his hands for a moment and imagines himself pulling d’Artagnan close and kissing him like a lover, gentle and unhurried, his heart finally open.

It’s all or nothing now, and Athos knows what he has to say.

_See you in half an hour?_

 

* * *

 

The house is nestled deep in the heart of a neat little suburb, all speed bumps and off-road parking, and not anywhere Athos can imagine any of d’Artagnan’s friends living; and it all becomes clear when the front door opens just as he’s about to ring the bell, to reveal a woman of about thirty wearing a raincoat, with a stack of reusable shopping bags under one arm and a baby carrier seat in the other hand, complete with sleeping baby. She has the unmistakeable dark hair and eyes of the d’Artagnan family.

For a moment she just pauses with her hand on the doorknob, looking him up and down; her gaze just as intense as his d’Artagnan’s but cooler, more penetrating somehow, until Athos feels distinctly uneasy beneath it.

“You must be Athos,” she says at last, transferring her shopping bags to the other armpit before offering her hand. “I’m Anna.”

“Pleased to meet you,” he says automatically. Her grip is strong and certain.

“Just let yourself in.” She steps to the side, manoeuvring neatly past him, and unlocking the car. “I’ll be back in about an hour.”

Athos does as he’s told, hesitating on the unfamiliar threshold and calling out, “D’Artagnan?”

A pause, and then he hears, “In here,” coming from the room on the right; and Athos closes the door softly behind him and takes off his shoes, deciding this seems very much like a shoes-off kind of house. The rack below the coat hooks is filled to bursting with women’s shoes (the sensible sort), men’s shoes and the shoes of a small child, he thinks a girl; and on the floor in front of it are d’Artagnan’s trainers, laces still done up as usual, the sight of them unexpectedly reassuring.

 _It’ll be okay_ , Athos tells himself, and leaves his shoes lined up next to d’Artagnan’s, so close they’re touching.

Then he takes a deep breath and walks through the door, where he finds d’Artagnan sitting on a cushion on the living room floor, having what looks like a tea party with a girl of about four or five years old who’s the spitting image of him, and a soft toy moose that’s almost as big as the girl is.

“Who are you?” she asks, with the directness of the very young.

“Hello. My name’s Athos. I’m –” He falters, not quite sure how to explain his presence here to a small child; but with an encouraging nod from d’Artagnan (who at least doesn’t look unhappy to see him, to Athos’ relief), he decides he can’t go wrong with the facts. “I’m Uncle Charlie’s husband.”

Athos is probably imagining it, but he could swear the little girl looks sceptically at the moose before turning to d’Artagnan and saying, “You can’t have a husband. You’re a boy!”

“Of course I can,” d’Artagnan replies easily, “if I want one. And when you’re older you can have a wife or a husband, or whatever you want.”

“I don’t want a husband. I want to be an explorer,” the little girl retorts – and before Athos realises he’s doing it he and d’Artagnan are catching each other’s eyes and smiling.

Immediately Athos’ heart feels lighter than it has in days.

“That sounds like fun. Can I join in?” he asks, sitting himself down between d’Artagnan and the moose.

He’s given a plastic slice of cake and a little cup, and is formally introduced to the little girl – Ella – and the moose (Monty), and while it means that instead of getting to talk things through he and d’Artagnan end up pouring imaginary tea and listening to Ella tell them a story about a princess who decided she didn’t want to be a princess after all and went to live on a pirate ship instead, d’Artagnan keeps sneaking glances at him with a shy little grin, like he’s not quite sure of his place any more but is hopeful all the same, and even though this is downright surreal Athos decides there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

When Ella reaches the end of her pirate story and starts lecturing Monty on the importance of finishing his cake, Athos takes advantage of her distraction to reach for d’Artagnan’s hand and say in an undertone: “I’m sorry, for what I said. I didn’t mean it.”

“I know.” D’Artagnan’s fingers curl around his. “And I should have just told you that I’m in love with you.”

D’Artagnan looks – okay, he looks fucking terrified, but he’s nodding, and Athos can see the determination in his eyes – and the hope there too, that the love he’s offering will be enough. That Athos will take him seriously at last.

And Athos will tell him everything – that he let his doubts and fears blind him to what was right in front of his face, that he never took d’Artagnan any less than seriously – but later. For now, all he wants to say is, “And I with you,” and watch d’Artagnan grin like the sun coming out for just a moment before he leans in for a kiss.

“Eww! Gross!”

Athos pulls guiltily away to find Ella waggling her finger at them like an old-fashioned schoolmarm and pouting, “No kissing at my tea party!”

“Sorry, monkey,” d’Artagnan says, not actually looking sorry at all. “We forgot. Can I have some more tea please?”

 

* * *

 

As charming as younger members of the d’Artagnan family are, it’s not a moment too soon for Athos when Anna gets back from the supermarket, and after commandeering them to help her carry the shopping inside she secures Ella’s attention with the promise of lunch, and they manage to hang back – alone at last.

“Can I take you home?” Athos asks, trying to keep his voice down but not meaning for it to drop low and suggestive, though he can’t help relishing the way d’Artagnan’s eyes flash at his suggestion, before he looks guiltily down the hall.

“I’m afraid I’m on babysitting duty tonight as well. Ben, Anna’s husband, will be back in a few hours, and they’re going out for dinner together.” D’Artagnan’s hand is playing idly with the hem of Athos’ shirt, tickling the bare skin below. “But you can stay?”

“Gladly,” Athos tells him, and pulls him close again.

D’Artagnan kisses exactly the way Athos would describe him – fearless and determined, parting Athos’ lips and licking his way inside with a single-minded intensity – and Athos is in grave danger of getting carried away when he hears a throat being cleared behind him, and detaches himself hurriedly from d’Artagnan for the second time in an hour.

“Athos.” Anna isn’t _smiling_ , exactly, but there’s definitely some amusement in her face. “Are you staying for lunch?”

“I’d love to,” he replies truthfully; and once she’s out of earshot once more d’Artagnan actually _giggles_ , dropping his head to Athos’ shoulder and humming in pleasure when Athos reaches up to stroke his hair.

There are a few moments of silence before he asks, “Did you really not realise? How I felt about you?”

“I wouldn’t let myself,” Athos admits, pressing a kiss to d’Artagnan’s hair. “I was – scared, that I couldn’t handle it, so I told myself it was all in my head. That if I showed any interest you’d feel obligated to let me do what I wanted.”

There’s something uncharacteristically nervous in d’Artagnan’s expression when he lifts his head again, and replies, “Would it shock you if I told you that I didn’t think having a sugar daddy was such a bad idea?”

Athos abruptly forgets to keep his voice down.

_“D’Artagnan…!”_

The voices in the kitchen fall silent – and Athos adds in a voice much quieter, but no less appalled, “Did you _really_ think I –”

“No – I mean – you made it quite clear. You looked so horrified when you realised that _I_ thought you expected something from me. But when I signed the contract? An older man offering me money to live with him, and asking for nothing in return? Yeah, I did. And I looked at you and I didn’t think it would be such a hardship.” D’Artagnan glares at him, attempting to mask his uncertainty. “Have I ruined everything?”

“No, of course not, it’s just…” Athos fumbles for the words to explain just how ill the whole idea sits with him, and manages, “You shouldn’t have to live like that. _Nobody_ should. Why would you want this, when you could have something normal?”

“ _Athos_.” D’Artagnan pulls back a little so he can look him straight in the eye, one hand reaching up to caress his jaw. “For God’s sake. This _is_ normal. Everything that matters is normal. A marriage of convenience might have brought us together, but the rest of it? Falling in love? That was all us.”

“No, you’re absolutely right,” Athos realises, pulling d’Artagnan close again until his forehead rests against Athos’, and taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I’ve not handled this at all well, have I?”

“So you can make it up to me tonight by fucking my brains out.” D’Artagnan grins, pressing a swift kiss to Athos’ wide-open mouth before pulling away. “But first, I promised to help Anna with the lunch prep. Coming?”

“Always,” Athos promises – and when d’Artagnan holds his hand out, he takes it and lets himself be pulled along, down the hallway and through the open door.  


End file.
